


You Paint What You Can't Have

by Emono



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Art, Blow Jobs, Enjolras comes around I promise, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Male Slash, Mentions of kink, Modern Era, Non Consensual, Politics, Rough Sex, Self Confidence Issues, Sexual Content, Sexual Violence, Smut, Unrequited Love, near rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:07:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 145,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emono/pseuds/Emono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras has never showed him anymore than reluctant acceptance. To feel close to him, Grantaire paints and sketches his Apollo as best he can but it's a waste of paint. He can't seem to capture his more than perfect image. Until, without warning, Enjolras starts warming up to him. He touches him more, includes him more deeply into their activities. His Apollo seems to trust him and it's more than he could ask for. Even with his drinking and hisgeneral discare for life, Enjolras seems to find something in him worth smiling at. But how much will Grantaire suffer before Enjolras realizes that his feelings are more than that of friendship? Through their enemies misdeeds and a nasty riot, can they both admit to what they want? Can their friends accept them? Can Jean accept that Grantaire is beyond his reach? </p><p>Set in modern day Rouen, France. The boys are all students (except for Feuilly) and they've come together to form the ABC, a group that picks up causes and plans out protests and volunteer work. Very liberal, very people oriented. I'm going to be using real French issues, as well as world wide issues. I'm American, please bear with me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Paint What You Can't Have

 

Who could sleep in the mornings when the light was just so perfect? It streamed in so fresh and sweet, too young to have any real heat behind it. It reminded him of walking to school beneath the trees that lined the sidewalks of his street. He'd never been able to wake up properly unless he had a legal reason to so staying up was his only option. It wasn't any hardship on his part. There were red smudges beneath his eyes that spoke more of drink than exhaustion but at this point in his young life those two things went hand in hand. The marks stood stark against his pasty complexion and dark curls, an unruly mess that covered his ears and bunched almost too thick around his head. He'd given up long ago trying to tame it, settling for a well-placed beanie. He had a dozen of them in different colors and patterns but they barely restrained them enough to be called decent in public.

His hair reflected his life. Messy, unkempt, disappointing.

Grantaire grabbed the mug resting on the windowsill, taking a hardy swallow of spiked coffee. It was more whiskey than caffeine at this point (thanks to the bottle he'd brought with him but not the thermos) but he couldn't find it in him to care. It was too early in the day to be judging himself.

“No,” Grantaire rasped aloud, the first time he'd spoken in hours, “ _Always_ is a good time to judge myself.”

Good art was born of suffering.

The first tendrils of self-pity started to crawl up his gut so he took another swallow, drowning them. He clacked down the mug and took up his brush and palette again. He was perched nearly ten feet up on a ladder, the top wide enough and cushioned with an old pillow to make him comfortable. He had propped it right against the wall to reach the thick-silled, curtainless window in his apartment that faced the east so it could catch all that beautiful light and pour it across whatever it could touch. He'd finally found a use for the special-ordered ten foot easel Joly had given him for his birthday last year. At first he'd claimed it the most useless gift an artist could get.

_When the hell am I going to need a painting up this high? I mean, honestly?!_

But Joly had started to pout and he couldn't take the thought of breaking his happy friend's heart, even for a moment, so he'd corrected himself and swiftly promised to use it when he could. After a little chopping with some hedge clippers, it sat at the perfect height to match his ladder. High-end painting, if you would. There were no shadows up here, no cumbersome angles, just pure light. And up here he had to remain a certain level of sober to get anything done.

His home still held a chill from the night. He didn't have heat or air but thankfully Rouen didn't get hot, even in the peek of summer. But it did freeze and those nights were the worst. His bed was on the second level of the loft, a sturdier oak ladder leading up to it. Most nights, lost at the bottom of a bottle, he couldn't make it. Hence the heavy pile of blankets and pillow arranged in a heavy pillow in front of his only couch, his 'drunk nest' as Courfeyrac called it.

The place was single roomed but it was wide, giving room for book shelves filled with more supplies than paperbacks. A broad, flat desk sat piled with smudged sketch papers and charcoal. Half-finished faces, the first bloom of flowers, messy shadows across cobbled streets, put on hold more than abandoned. He couldn't actually afford to discard any bit of work.

The place was nice. Grey washed walls, lots of windows, high enough above the street to discourage any passing thief. It was rather bare of anything more extravagant than the leather couch he'd pilfered out of an abandoned apartment some months ago. Maybe fifty feet of walking space between the door and the wall, the small second floor giving it a depth it sorely needed. His friends called it cramped, too small for a grown man to live in, but he loved it for it's flaws. Like most things in his life it was flawed, unable to live up to expectations, and he couldn't judge it anymore than he wanted others to judge him.

When his mother had died she'd left him with a rather hefty inheritance. Kicked out and disowned by his family, cut off from the overflowing wallet of his father, he used her gift to keep him housed. With as cheaply as he lived he could milk it for a few more years before he'd have to really consider getting another job. His kindly mother had disapproved of his choice to be an artist so he dared not put a dime of her money into drink or paint so whatever he sold he used to keep the wine flowing and the supplies well-stocked.

Again, he could not afford to abandon even a sketch.

Grantaire plucked his robe up higher on his shoulder from where it had slipped, ignoring the smear well blended gold he smeared across his neck doing so. A gift from his cold sister from when he was young, the cloth brushed a bit below his knees and was woven from a soft cotton. It was dark, almost too much against his skin, but it covered his modesty and he liked to use the few things he owned. No matter where they came from.

The first few strokes across the canvas were practiced and small, simple curves of his brush. Dabbing in just a few dots of scarlet, he continued. Soon his vision came to life, a head full of golden curls appearing across the paper. He darkened it up, layered it, then went on.

He continued like that for about an hour until the sun grew too strong in the sky. He collected the blends in a few small jars and stopped them up with corks to keep them wet. He slipped them into the pockets of his robe, putting one paintbrush behind his ear while he stuck the other between his teeth. Balancing the pallet in his fingers, he swung himself around and started the climb down. He couldn't resist one last, lingering look at the marked canvas.

A mop of golden curls, tinted with blood, and the beginning of a shadowed profile.

Grantaire's heart throbbed painfully, he resumed his descent.

He washed off the pallet and scrubbed weakly at his neck and fingers, getting off what stains he could. There were probably more but he didn't care about anything past a power nap before the meeting. The ABC were joining up to discuss...something or other. He couldn't really remember what the hasty phone call from Combeferre had been about. He set the vials on a shelf, put the brushes back in their jar, and laid the palette on a towel.

Everything in it's place. Including him.

Grantaire had just settled down into his nest when a buzzing sound came from beneath him. He rooted around for a while, bringing up a candy bar that he'd long forgotten about. He stuffed half of it in his mouth before continuing his search. It was his phone. He flipped it open and found two texts. The one from Combeferre reminded him to go to class tonight after the meeting, the other from Lesgle told him he'd buy him dinner if he came to the meeting early.

Grantaire smiled as he laid back down. Lesgle thought he was being subtle but his attempt to make sure he ate enough was obvious. Sure he didn't spend a lot of money on food but he had limited resources and liquor was cheaper anyway. The two pounds he'd lost this year were starting to look obvious on his frame and he couldn't quite bring himself to turn down free food.

He tilted his head back until he could see his painting, the image threatening to shimmer in the brightening sun.

He fell asleep with the image of his Apollo seared behind his eyelids.

 

 

 

 

 

 

****

Grantaire woke up only a little hung-over, the chime of his phone giving him thirty minute warning. His mouth was dry but he wasn't nauseas. He managed a shower but didn't bother to look in the mirror, knowing he'd only hate what he saw. Instead he dragged a dark grey beanie over his head and slid some stone-washed jeans over his legs. Boots, some kind of threadbare t-shirt that was fraying on the sleeves, his backpack, his skateboard, and he was gone.

The air was crisp, the sun disappearing behind the clouds to give the city a little chill. The Les Amis cafe was only fifteen minutes by skateboard, he would be lucky to make it on time. Of course, he never really got there when he was supposed to. He loved barging in amidst Enjolras's speeches, forcing the man to stutter over his words for a second and glare before continuing. Even with the break in his flow, the man could bring countries to his knees with the power of his voice and the height of his passion. Most of the time they sat in awe of their fearless leader, other times whipped up into a frenzy by his plans.

His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't woken up early enough to get a bite. He snatched a pear out of a vendor's box as he passed, blowing a kiss at the irritated old lady who tried in vain to chase him. Still snacking, he glided into the parking lot and stopped only at the edge of the sidewalk. Flipping his board under his arm, Grantaire pushed through the glass doors and strolled in like he owned the place.

Said owner was giving him a look from behind the counter. A pretty woman with her hair cut short, her eyes dark and lips so red he could paint them for days with a dozen different shades and never get them right. The piece he'd done for her birthday was hanging up on the wall he passed. A white canvas with black lines swirled over it, meeting and touching until they formed the abstract shape of a woman with flowing hair. The only color on the piece were those full, blood red lips.

Fantine had almost cried as she hung it on the wall, kissing his cheeks for the thoughtfulness of it. Truth to be told, though the sentiment was there, he had little else to offer her besides his work. Valjean had demanded to pay him for it but he'd refused, instead taking a free coffee now and then in ways of compensation.

Les Amis was a geeky mix of old school coffee shop and book store. Fantine was a brilliant barista and her husband, Valjean, took care of their vast collection of books. They were like a well oiled clock, gliding around the store and seeing to it's every need almost effortlessly. And right now those beautifully deep eyes were shooting him a half-hearted glare.

“What?” Grantaire mumbled around a bite of fruit.

“You're late,” Valjean sung from somewhere upstairs, shoes clacking on the hardwood above his head on the second floor. That's where the books lived, that's where the older man thrived.

“He's not wrong,” Fantine cocked her head toward the door that led up to the attic, the one only employees were supposed to go through, “You'll interrupt him again.”

“Oh, we don't that, do we?” Grantaire waggled his eyebrows at her as he passed, pushing open the door with his hip, “Wish me luck. I may come back in a bucket.”

“I'll be sure to bake whatever's left of you into the muffins,” Fantine's voice followed him up the stairs, “Think of that, my dear, _spiked_ muffins. I think it'll be a special.”

Valjean's deep laugh echoed through the thin hallway, chasing his footsteps all the way up. He finished his pear when he popped open the door at the top, dropping the last bit of the browning fruit into the bin right inside. The attic had been converted nearly a year ago into a meeting place for their group, littered with charts and tables and chairs. Everything a rag-tag group of freedom fighters needed to organize their escapades.

Grantaire slowly shut the door, tip-toeing toward the biggest of the tables. The gang was all there, including their beautiful leader amidst a passionate ramble on about their newest focus. François Hollande, their current president. Enjolras was always going back and forth on the man's worth, how good he was for the country and his people. Their welfare state was being threatened and only time could tell if Hollande would hold true to his “tax the rich” ways. Though they all came from wealthy families, most had renounced their bourgeoisie ways but there was still a few of them who couldn't afford it. Lesgle parents were good people and his father was an ambassador, he let them tromp all over his home when he wasn't there (which was a lot). Jehan's parents were wealthy too and gave their son everything he asked for, which wasn't much more than an emergency card and an allowance. Petty cash really in comparison to what they were sitting on.

Everyone seemed enraptured. So it was even more obvious when Enjolras stopped mid-word and stared him down, causing all heads to turn in his direction. Of course this was when his headache decided to flare and he nearly tripped into his seat, pulling his beanie down a bit to try and hide his eyes.

“Grantaire.”

“He speaks,” Grantaire started with a grin, “Oh speak again, bright angel!”

“You're late,” Enjolras's lips curled in a faint scowl, “Drunk, I suppose?”

“Hung-over,” Grantaire corrected with a sharp gesture, “Please, continue. I'll just sit here and be extra, super quiet.”

“See that you do,” his voice was clipped but it didn't hide the strange tone in his voice. Usually Enjolras didn't stop and call him out but today seemed to be different. Grantaire looked down to find Jehan pushing a croissant in front of him along with a small water and a bottle of paracetamol.

“Are you not the sweetest thing God ever did put on this Earth?” Grantaire cooed, pinching Jehan's blushing cheek. He shot a wink at Enjolras, their leader did not look amused.

“Is he not?” Grantaire needled playfully, looking back to Jehan with a widening smile, “If he is our shining Apollo then surely you are our caring Hestia?”

As always, without fail, something softened on Enjolras's face at the nickname. But it was just a moment. Grantaire didn't catch it, too busy pinching both of Jehan's cheeks and making him laugh, but the others couldn't miss it.

“And now you have my silence,” Grantaire promised, leaning back in his seat and taking up the medicine, “On you go.”

“How gracious of you.”

Grantaire shrugged off the icy tone and went about taking his meds and downing the water. The bread was consumed much slower, fingers pinching off bits and pieces at a time and popping them between his lips. He was starting to feel a more ravenous hunger but he didn't want to show his desperation in front of the others. He suddenly wished he'd worked on something else this morning besides that selfishly beautiful painting. If it turned out half as well as he hoped it would he could easily make a few hundred off it. Sadly, he knew he wouldn't give up the new painting without a serious fight so it was more of a time filler than a job.

Maybe a career in art alone wasn't what he needed. Producing a nice piece and selling it quickly wasn't quite the creative motivation he required. It was like sending children off into the world without so much as coins in their pocket. Unprepared, incomplete, forced.

“You're still hungry,” Jehan didn't phrase it like a question, starting to stand up, “Let me get you something.”

“Stop fussing, Jehan,” Grantaire grabbed his arm and started to pull him back down into the chair.

“Sit down!” Enjolras exclaimed between complete thoughts, pointing accusingly at the seat. Jehan sat down obediently, smiling apologetically at his friend but only getting an eye roll in return. Grantaire shook his finger at him in a mocking manner, mouthing you should know better.

So the meeting droned on and Grantaire lost himself in the dulcet tones of their leader, falling in an out of his cadence. Like standing in the ocean, refusing to move, letting it rock you. It was just as calming. When Enjolras finally turned his back to start sticking pins in the map mounted on the cork board, Grantaire ripped off his beanie and scratched through his hair, satisfying the itch on his scalp. Jehan clucked and started trying to smooth the unruly curls but it didn't feel right. He liked Jehan, loved him like a brother (as he did most of the ABC), but it made him uncomfortable to have anyone touch him in front of Enjolras. He knew his love was doomed and one-sided, he knew he was meant for a life of suffering and pining, but he still felt like he was saving himself for his Apollo. Maybe for the day Enjolras went crazy and decided to be with him, maybe for a quick drunk fuck, maybe for a mistake. He wasn't sure what he was waiting on but he was waiting, nonetheless.

It was one thing to have a clumsy make-out session with a stranger in his loft or at a party, it was quite another to have a mutual friend show him such warm affection in front of everyone. Maybe some other time but not with Enjolras ready to turn around any moment.

Grantaire saw the start of the swivel in just enough time to slap Jehan's hand out of his hair and shove the beanie back on, hiding his unruly mop. His friend looked a little put out but he said nothing, instead turning his attention back to their leader.

If the welfare state fell through, if Hollande mucked it up, then there would be mass protests.

“If it comes to that, we must be prepared,” Enjolras snapped his folder shut, laying it on the table, “Let's end it for today. On Saturday I want us to meet again for rally points and prepared research on the type of uproar we'll be facing. It won't just be pacifists out there this time. I'm afraid violence will taint the whole display.”

“I'll put my ear to the ground and see what kind of arsenal we'll be up against,” Courfeyrac assured him, making a few more notes, “I doubt there'll be any lethal guns but I wouldn't put it past them to whip out the adamsite and the beanbag rounds.”

Bahorel hissed in through his teeth, “Are those the baggies with that grapeshot, bird shot shit inside them that kind of go _phoosh_ when they smack stuff?”

Coufeyrac gave a smile without teeth, trying not to laugh, “Yes.”

“God, I hate those,” the ravenette rubbed his stomach, feeling the phantom sting, “I'm never doing another one with them around. I'll take rubber bullets over those horrible things.”

“We won't really have much choice, will we?” Feuilly pointed out, looking down at his watch, “I've got the evening shift, I'm out.”

“Make sure you pick up something healthy on the way there,” Combeferre pointed out as he sorted his papers and stuffed them into his messenger bag, “Watch your blood sugar.”

“Yes, mother,” Feuilly chuckled, slinging his backpack up onto his shoulder, “Good luck with your books, boys, it's time for the men to go to their real jobs.”

“Men? I see no men here,” Bahorel laughed outright.

He got a good smack in the head as the older men left the room, leaving him wrinkling his nose and rubbing a hand through his hair to ease the ache.

“Boys?” Fantine's voice carried up from the open door, “If you're done, I have a new _canele_ recipe I sure would like to get an opinion on.”

That grabbed their attention. Joly and Lesgle jammed up the thin door trying to get out at the same time. Combeferre parted them easily, taking down the stairs on quick feet. Jehan and Bahorel fought to get down first as well, the raventte playing dirty with an elbow to the ribs.

“Did you see that?” Jehan whined to Courfeyrac as he started down the stairs, rubbing his stomach.

“Yes, yes, he's a great brute,” the older boy with dark curls followed, closing the door behind him, “Fantine always gives you more anyway, I don't know why you're complaining.”

Grantaire stood slowly and threw his backpack over his shoulder, slapping his skateboard on the table as he struggled with the other strap.

“ 'Taire?”

Grantaire straightened to attention, wincing when the bag fell off his arm with a hard thud. Enjolras was walking toward him with a sort of purpose, hand rooting around inside his bag. He pulled out a handkerchief and a small jar of vaseline, sitting them on the table next to the cynic.

“I haven't had one drink today,” Grantaire started his usual speech, trying not to roll his eyes, “I haven't smoked. I'm even sorry I interrupted you.”

Enjolras cocked his head slightly, “And you plan to go to class tonight?”

“Yeah,” the ravenette snorted lightly, “It's _Philosophy of Love and Sex in Art_ , with an emphasis on paintings. You think I'm going to miss that?”

Enjolras huffed, “Did you even look in the mirror this morning?”

Grantaire self consciously ran his hand over his hat, as if to smooth his hair, “What's wrong?”

The blonde broke a smile, just a flash of teeth, “You're hopeless, you know that? Hold still.”

Grantaire didn't even flinch as Enjolras dipped the rag into the vaseline and rubbed it across his cheek, just below his eye. The blonde grabbed his cheek to hold him still, rubbing it in more firmly.

“Stay still for a minute,” Enjolras commanded.

Grantaire closed his eyes and savored the feeling of the other so close and touching him, letting his warmth soak in much like a plant would. The times they touched were few and far between and it made him crave it three times as much. His dreams were fueled by pats on the shoulders and accidental thigh brushes. If he breathed deep enough he could smell the cinnamon soap Enjolras preferred, one of the few luxuries he'd kept in his life after running away from home. The man was just three years older than him but he felt like this huge power standing in front of him, setting him off-kilter in the best way.

He could wax years of poetry about the intoxication of this man but he'd settle for his plethora of sketches and small paintings. The one from this morning was the first big piece he'd planned in the likeness of his mighty leader.

“What were you doing up so early?”

“Huh?” Grantaire blinked a few times, shaking off his daydreams.

“I'm trying to make polite conversation, do keep up,” Enjolras tisked, “Lesgle said you were supposed to come early to eat but you slept instead. A nap in the middle of the day? I can only assume you were up quite early. Or late.”

“I didn't sleep last night,” Grantaire found himself admitting, “Can I ask what the hell you're doing?”

“Another minute,” Enjolras's eyes danced to the clock on the wall, “And you didn't answer my question. What kept you from sleeping?”

Grantaire wet his lips, feeling the truth bubbling up his throat, “Do you know how amazing the light is when the sun first comes up?”

“As an artist, I'm sure you appreciate it much more than I,” Enjolras pointed out, “What were you working on as the sun came up?”

“A new painting.”

“Anything impressive?”

“I'd like to think so,” Grantaire's heart was sputtering in his chest. Enjolras almost never asked him about his art. Hell, their conversation were always limited to the newest movement or affirmative action. Either that or some form of scolding.

“What is it of?” the blonde asked idly, watching the clock.

“God,” Grantaire answered without a second thought. Enjolras's eyes rounded just a bit at the statement, head turning to look at him like he'd just grown an extra ear. And dear Powers That Be, did he love his one true god unconditionally. Those flaxen curls that caught every speck of light and changed color with the shifting of the clouds, how was he supposed to paint such a miracle? Those eyes, wide now but usually narrowed in anger, couldn't be placed. That color was special, one he couldn't quite mix with simple paint. He'd blown through two commissions trying to recreate it.

“And here I thought you didn't believe in anything,” the orator tisked.

“One thing.”

The honesty of his words were starting to burn a hole in his tongue. His cheek was tingled and Enjolras's fingers were burning fine lines into his jaw, forcing goosebumps along the line of his neck. The older boy (man? Were any of them men, truly?) looked like he was going to push it but a quick glance at the clock stopped his train of thought. Enjolras took the handkerchief and started wiping at Grantaire's cheek, firm enough at first but then a little diggingly. He winced at the pressure, unable to stop himself.

“Sorry,” Enjolras murmured, brow furrowed in concentration.

“What are you-?”

“Done,” the blonde declared, pulling the cloth back and showing it to him. A red stain now marred the white material, too bright to be blood. Grantaire rubbed at his cheek, fingertips coming away clean except for a slight residue from the Vaseline.

“You can't go to class with paint on your face, 'Taire,” Enjolras's tongue clicked in almost off-handed detest as he stuffed the things back into his bag, “It simply won't do.”

“I must've been distracted this morning, I don't remember it,” Grantaire felt much too flustered for such a simply interaction, “I guess I looked kind of stupid.”

“I think most would call it artistic,” Enjolras's smile was small, barely a curl of lips, but it was there, “Now make something useful of yourself and go to class. And if you don't want Joly bothering you with glucose levels and parallel retention rates, I suggest you grab something to eat on your way out.”

Grantaire moved aside to let his leader through. Enjolras walked to the door and paused, grabbing inside his bag once more in a way that showed he'd forgotten about something. Thinking fast, Grantaire pulled his overly-expensive-but-totally-worth-it camera out of the side of his backpack and flipped it on. He had a gut feeling about the next moment and couldn't stop himself from flipping it on and putting on the right settings for a high contrast picture. Peering through the lens, he watched Enjolras pull the stained handkerchief from his bag and stare down at it. A thoughtful crease came to his brow, a tightness to his jaw.

 _Perfect_.

Grantaire snapped the photo as quick as he could, grinning behind the device. Enjolras looked up sharply, glaring.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Grantaire promised, slipping the camera away, “You first, O' Righteous One.”

Enjolras tossed the rag away before hurrying down the stairs, a quick stride showing his agitation. Grantaire thought about calling out to him but decided against it. He'd ruined another could-be-tender moment between the two of them, what else was new?

But this time...this time he'd gotten a picture out of it.


	2. You Try To Replace/Recreate What You Can't Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras tries to replace Grantaire but fails. Grantaire tries to recreate his Apollo but only ends up hurting himself. Both seek pleasure but fall short.

**This is from a fanmix cover from[fuckyeahfanmixes](http://fuckyeahfanmixes.tumblr.com/) but this is the image that inspired Grantaire's painting. It doesn't exactly look like this but it'll give you more of a feeling for what I'm tring to go for. If you want to see more, check out my [tumblr](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/).**

* * *

 

 

He'd drunk too much. Again. No one had really been surprised. The only response he got when he'd announced he couldn't skateboard home was a plethora of eye-rolling and finger-pointing toward Jehan.

Apparently it was his turn to take him home.

 

“You are an angel,” Grantaire curled along Jehan's side as much as he could as they walked up to his door, arms wrapped around his neck, “Amazing. Stunning. Brilliant, really.”

 

A flush stained the blonde's cheeks.

 

“I could've never gotten home without you,” Grantaire yanked him close, rubbing their noses, “You always take such good care of me.”

 

“Combeferre says I spoil you,” Jehan laughed, eyes flickering down to admire the curve of his friend's mouth, “I think you deserve to be spoiled.”

 

“I get more than I deserve, I promise you,” Grantaire smacked a kiss on each of his reddened cheeks, “And now that you've escorted me home, noble knight, I believe I'll retire.”

 

“You get so poetic when you're drunk.”

 

“I'm an artist,” he bounced the tip of his finger off the blonde's nose, laughing when he made a face, “I am nothing if not poetic. And I'm poetic because I'm nothing.”

 

Grantaire openly guffawed at Jehan's surprised look, “Go home, sweet Jehan. It is no time for pretty boys to be on the street.”

 

“I could stay,” Jehan offered quickly as the ravenette started to enter the key code into the apartment building, “Keep you company, make sure you have a proper breakfast.”

 

“No, no, no, no,” the cynic tisked out quickly, waving his hand sharply through the air, “I'll be fine. I'm not alone in there. I have dozens of unfinished works staring at me, mocking me. I have quite an evening ahead of me.”

 

Jehan swallowed his nerves, grabbing the other's hand and staring up at him earnestly, “Surely your bed's cold?”

 

“Unfortunately my bed is used to being frigid,” Grantaire patted his hand, “But I forgive it. Don't worry so much about my love life, little cupid, worry more about your own. Or that of our besotted Marius! Worry about him throwing himself into marriage. Goodnight, Jehan, goodnight!”

 

Grantaire slips inside, blowing a kiss at his friend before closing the door. Four apartments, just like his own, made up the entire building. His was the farthest, toward the back, and he managed a rather steady walk to it. When he was finally inside he couldn't help but breath a sigh of relief. As much as he loved going out and meeting people, getting drunk with them, learning about the human spirit, it was a relief to take sanctuary after such a long night. At least out there he could put on his mask and be what he wanted to be, happy and confident. Full of himself, prideful, ready to take on the world. The kind of man that was worthy to be in the ABC and at Enjolras's side.

 

Not the man he felt like right now.

 

Grantaire went over to his drawing station, sliding open the bottom drawer to pull out a bottle of almost lime colored liquid and a wooden box. He sat down upon his coffee table, crossing his legs beneath him and setting the stuff down. With quick practiced movements he pulled out out a silver spoon, a rounded glass, a small bag of sugar cubes, and-

 

Damn.

 

Grantaire grumbled to himself as he reluctantly got back up and headed to the kitchen, shedding shoes and socks as he went. The loft was bright enough without turning on the lights, the street lamps took care of that for him. His hat found a home on the kitchen counter as he grabbed a chilled bottle of water out of the fridge. He padded back to the table, plopping down gracelessly. He looked up to see his barely-started painting gazing down at him without eyes, regal in all it's still-to-be color splendor.

 

“And good evening to you, dear Apollo,” he tried for cheeriness as he poured the green-tinted liquor into his glass (just a quarter of the way, he didn't want to go overboard, “Just a touch of absinthe to finish the night off. Thought I'd give a few of those drawings another chance. What do you say?”

 

This is what he'd been reduced to. He placed the silver spoon on top of the cup, the sugar cube on top of that, then started to slowly pour the cold water over it all. Dilute and sweeten. It was a daunting task when all he wanted to do was _chug_ but the taste was worth it. He continued a light chat with his painting as he poured, pointedly ignoring the fact that he was alone.

 

Drink done, he picked it up and went over to the easel. He slowly turned it around so it would face his bed. Once he was sure he could get a proper look at it lying down, he started the slow climb up to his little hideaway. His bed spread was that deep plum some people swore was red, his pillows matching, a proper maroon sheet peeking out from beneath it. Before he'd adorned it with whatever he could find, a mish-mash of ugly patterns and understuffed pillows that had seen better days. Thankfully Eponine had taken mercy upon him, the sweet girl, and had gifted him with a whole new set for his birthday. He loved her dearly, even more than Jehan, and she sat right up there with Enjolras. While one was a burning love, the other was his most prized and best friend in the entire world. They'd grown up on the same street, loved the same music, took dance classes together. She was a gem, truly. They both suffered from unrequited love, though Eponine had given up on Marius nearly a year ago and was working toward being okay with her unreturned feelings. Sometimes, when they drank, she would tease him about keeping the spirit of true love alive while she herself had given up. Of course she had it all wrong. She was the brave one, moving on and accepting reality. He was just a boy fooling himself.

 

But God looked out for drunks and fools.

 

Grantaire took a long drink before crawling into bed, setting the glass on one of the shelves mounted on the walls. He'd scattered everything he could ever need up here. Some emergency snacks, a sketchbook, some nice charcoals Joly had given to him, a full flask, and a pack of smokes. He stretched out on the cool blankets, thankful the night was pleasant enough to sleep in his boxers. He squirmed out of his clothes and tossed them over the edge, curling on his side afterward to take a look at his painting. So far it was just a elegant nest of curls and the start of a shadowed face. Nothing truly impressive. Tomorrow morning he would start mixing the paint for Enjolras's eyes, though he wasn't sure where to start. His leader's eyes were a mystery all their own.

 

Grantaire raised his fingers to his lips, staring intently at where the mouth would soon be on his painting. Those would have to wait, he'd need time to really get the color right. Certainly wider than his own, presenting an almost cliché cupid bow that crept into his dreams. They'd probably be firm, demanding, wanting. All that boundless passion focused down into something as simple as a kiss. God, if he could just have one of those kisses he'd be blessed. He'd want it to brand him, burn him. The time he was touched by Apollo himself.

 

Grantaire groaned as his cock filled and thickened against his thigh, a guilty rush of pleasure surging through him as he continued to stare at his painting. He swore to himself right then that he'd never get off to the sight of his own artwork, image be damned. He rolled up onto his knees, taking his glass and downing a gulp so large it made him dizzy for a minute or two. He debated getting a plug or a vibrator, something to clench around, but the buzzing in his groin told him he would be lucky if he didn't get off in the first few strokes.

 

It wasn't the first time Enjolras had inspired his solo sessions, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

 

Like this, on his knees, he could almost pretend like the older boy was behind him. Watching him, keeping quiet, desperate to pin him down and fuck him but _waiting_ so patiently for the perfect moment. In his mind, Grantaire painted the blonde as so enraptured with him that he could barely hold himself back. He'd be rough, bruise him, bite him, fuck him so hard he'd remember the shape of his cock the next day by sense memory alone.

 

Grantaire striped his hand across his cock, eyes clenched shut as he constructed a quick and dirty fantasy that would get him through this so he could sleep. One of Enjolras kneeling just behind him, his leader's stark white shirt still unbuttoned but still clinging to his shoulders. He was watching, eyes burning, hands flexing at his sides as he tried not to just grab him and shove inside his willing body. A moan sputtered from Grantaire's lips as he leaned forward, bracing himself on the wall as he started rocking into his own fist. He could almost hear his Apollo's firm tone telling him to spread his legs, ordering him to grip himself harder. Whispering filthy, nonsensical things that made his blood run hot. Like how tight his ass would be, how slutty he'd sound if he just _fucked him_ right now, how good he'd behave if it meant he'd get something up his ass. He could almost feel the ghost of fingertips on his hips and his rhythm faltered, mentally free-falling for a few blissful seconds as warmth flowed over his knuckles.

 

He lazily grabbed a rag off a shelf and wiped himself off, grunting in exertion as he tossed it over the edge and fell back up where the pillows were. He dragged one beneath his head, breath coming in slow and deep as he came back down from the high. Shame chased the pleasure. Once again he'd shown his true colors, just another pathetic lovesick puppy who couldn't even keep his never-would-be crush out of his head long enough to get off. He blindly felt for the glass and downed the rest of it, chucking it over the side as well. There was an unsatisfying thump. Fucking plastic glass-looking pieces of shit.

 

Grantaire grabbed a blanket and slammed it over his face, blocking out the view of his painting.

 

Next time he was just going to watch some porn.

 

 

 

 

 

*****

 

Grantaire had his laptop open in front of him, eyes glued to the screen. Whoever said that digital art wasn't real art was an idiot. The photoshop he'd torrented had all the trimmings, he could practically do anything on it. The picture he'd stolen of Enjolras was opened up in front of him, already tampered with by his greedy fingers and eager mind. What better way to fix a hangover than some selfish editing of stolen moments and free coffee?

 

“You look much more awake,” Fantine swept by, taking up his empty mug and replacing it with another all fresh and steaming, “What are you working on?”

 

“I took a picture of Enjolras,” Grantaire explained, tilting the screen so she could see it better. She peered down at it with a worried frown.

 

“Did he hurt himself?”

 

“Nope. It's just paint he wiped off of me.”

 

“He looks so...forlorn,” Fantine sighed, straightening up, “But that's our Enj for you. So serious for someone his age.”

 

“It's part of his charm.”

 

Fantine patted his head with her free hand, dropping a swift kiss onto the top of his red-knitted hat. She was so motherly, so exquisite in these moments that it made him ache deep below his heart. He wished his mother had been half as caring but there was no use in that. He had Fantine now, and Valjean, and his friends. They'd grown so close this past year it was almost as if they'd always been in his life. They'd laced up a little family here at Les Amis. He didn't know what he'd do without them all.

 

“Keep up the good work, it looks striking,” and with that she was gone, off to buss a table and refill some nearly-empty cups of other patrons. Grantaire went back to work, trying to cast shadows around the edges without making it too obvious. It was a very subtle art. Too much and it looked cheesy, too little and it was just another photograph.

 

Grantaire was mere inches from the screen when someone slid into the booth with him. An arm draped across the seat behind him, warmth spreading along his shoulder as someone leaned in to watch him work. One deep breath and he realized who it was.

 

“That cologne is way too expensive for a young university student,” Grantaire faux-scolded, getting a light slap across his head, “Hey!”

 

“I'm older than you, brat,” Lesgle's eyes raked over his arms, “What is all this?”

 

Grantaire looked down at his fingers and forearms, lips quirking in a satisfied smile. Various shades of blue speckled across his hands, smearing all the up to the crook of his elbows. He'd spent almost three hours and six tubes of paint trying to recreate Enjolras's eyes and even with all that effort he'd failed. Nothing really seemed to match up to his vision, let alone the real thing. He'd ruined some of his floorboards but he hadn't expected to get his deposit back anyway.

 

A large part of him thought he'd never actually leave that loft anyway. He'd suffered enough nightmares about it. Choking on his own vomit, alcohol poisoning creeping up on him while he slept, a robbery gone wrong, anything.

 

Lesgle moved closer and broke his thread of melancholy thoughts, cocking his head at the screen, “When did you get this?”

 

“I stole it after he wiped some paint off me,” he jabbed a finger at the screen, “See how I darkened it? It looks like blood. I'm thinking of giving it a title akin to, _Even Gods Can Bleed_ or _When a God Bleeds_. What do you think?”

 

“It looks really good,” Lesgle leaned back, a hint of teeth over his bottom lip showing his apprehension, “You can tell how much the artist loves his subject.”

 

A tension crept through Grantaire's shoulders. Lesgle moved his arm down around his shoulder, pressing his forehead against the side of his friend's head.

 

“You know I'm half in love with you, right?” Lesgle jested, “You come second to Joly and you know I only want the best for you, don't you?”

 

The cynic wished his coffee was spiked as he stole a long draw from it.

 

“I know you love him,” the brunette's voice was low, meant only for his ears, “It's okay, man, I'm not busting your nuts or anything. I just wanted you to know that I know, okay? And that I'm behind you.”

 

Grantaire leaned into him, “What...gave me away?”

 

“Anyone who knows you can tell,” Lesgle shook him a little, “Hey, come on, I'm not trying to bring you down.”

 

“It's hopeless anyway, a lost cause if there ever was one,” Grantaire started trying to whiten up the rag, making th red splotch that more obvious.

 

“Maybe not,” Lesgle countered, “You just do a lot of things he doesn't agree with. The excessive drinking, smoking, the whole not-having-a-real-job thing.”

 

“We can't all be desk workers and librarians,” Grantaire snapped, “I'm no good at kissing ass and I'm terrible at hard labor.”

 

“I'm not telling you to be something you're not,” he assured the younger man, “I'm just saying that Enjolras would give you a second look if you changed all those things about you. And if that holds true...well, then maybe you don't aren't meant to be. Look at me, R, please.”

 

Lesgle grabbed his chin lightly, turning his head toward him. The start of tears were shining in his eyes, making them glow an even brighter shade of blue than normal. The artist was too expressive, it was his only downfall.

 

“You are completely awesome, don't let anyone tell you otherwise. So if Enjolras can't see it, fuck him.”

 

Grantaire turned his head away, squinting up into the sunlight as he tried not to let the words hurt, “Do you like the picture?”

 

Lesgle pulled away, resting his head against the cushioned seat, “Yeah, R, I do.”

 

“Good, it's almost done.”

 

He watched his friend get back to work on the photo, emphasizing the light in Enjolras's hair as best he could. They both knew it was hopeless and neither wanted to say it aloud. Not again.

 

“You hungry?”

 

“Starving.”

 

 

 

*****

 

Enjolras led the woman (Charlotte, he believed her name was) by the end out of the bar. She was laughing, the tart taste of her rose cocktail still lingering on her lips. He stole the taste from her in brief kisses as they walked to his car, her fingers on his collar while his rested on the slight curve of her hip. He backed her up against his car, a welling lust overriding his good judgment as his kisses took a much more aggressive note. She was just so receptive, moaning lightly and clinging to his back and hair like he was her lifeline.

 

It was a rush of power he so rarely let himself feel.

 

Charlotte hiked her leg up around his waist, her shorts riding up to reveal almost too much ivory skin to be decent in public. He grabbed a greedy handful of her ass, pinning her harder to the car with his hips as he enjoyed the heat rolling off her in the chilly night. He let go of her hip in favor of sinking his fingers into her thick hair. It was dark and silky to the touch, so curly it clung to each of his fingers like it didn't want to let go. He moved down to pepper kisses across her throat, ignoring the taste of almonds and basic burn of her lotion. Her lips grazed his own neck, going down, and then an almost-too-hard bite dug into his collar bone while her short nails dug into the back of his neck. It sent pure heat up the blonde's stomach and into his chest, making him a little more light headed than he'd want to admit to. Words fell from his mouth on pure instinct.

 

“Mmm, 'Taire, that's it.”

 

Enjolras froze when he realized just what he had said. He eased her leg off his hip, trying to keep his panic as silent as possible as he stepped away.

 

“I, uh, I'm sorry. I think I'm a little too drunk for this. You,” he scrubbed a hand over his face as he listened to his own words come out too fast, slowly circling toward the other side of the car, “You really deserve someone more sober who can appreciate you. You're beautiful and I'm so sorry about this but I need to leave. Do you need cab fare?”

 

Charlotte watched him stop at the fender, waiting for her answer, “N-No, I drove myself.”

 

“You've had so much to drink,” Enjolras pulled out his wallet and pulled out a suitable amount of euros, coming up and slipping it into her limp hand, “I wouldn't want anything to happen to you. Take a cab on me, please.”

 

“Okay,” she breathed, accepting the money.

 

“Do you want me to call one for you? You shouldn't be out here unaccompanied.”

 

She was absolutely gobsmacked, “I'll call one and wait inside.”

 

“Good,” he went around and opened the driver door, “Then I have to wish you good night.”

 

“Are you okay to drive home?”

 

“Perfectly fine.”

 

“Uhm, Enjolras?”

 

The blonde stopped mid way into the car, straightening up to look at her properly, “Yes?”

 

“This is the nicest bail out I've ever had.”

 

“Thank you,” was all he could say, shooting her a hasty nod, “Take care of yourself.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Charlotte watched the young man drive away, eyes still rounded with surprise. She didn't know what had changed his min but she wished she could've helped him get around it. He was sweet. There was this little nagging sensation at the bottom of his heart that told her she'd probably never see him again, at least not single.

 

Whoever “Taire” was, they were one lucky bitch.

 

 

 

*****

 

Enjolras rushed into his apartment, barely managing to restrain himself from slamming the door. He hung up his coat and kicked his shoes off in the wall, making a line straight for the living room.

 

“ _Mmm, 'Taire, that's it.”_

 

The words rung between his ears, almost deafening him. He grabbed his remote and flipped on the tv, turning it to the news and cranking up the volume as much as his polite concern for his neighbors sleeping habits would allow. He tried to concentrate on what had happened to the Chinese students attacked in the country but he couldn't. There was indignation, an errant thought that he should make sure Coufeyrac kept his ear to the ground for any sound of protest so they could get involved, but he couldn't even find the will to text out the command. He paced to try and burn off his energy, face pinched in concentration.

 

Enjolras thought back to see how much he'd had to drink. He could've sworn he'd only nursed two beers all night, though he did buy those fruity cocktails for Charlotte and took her dare to taste every one of them. It had been a teasing game to make sure they were up to par, just a ploy to get their lips close. It had worked well enough. He rarely went out to bars unless he was with his friends, and he surely never went out with intent to pick up some woman (or man) he'd only known for a few hours. But tonight he'd gotten a craving that he couldn't shake. He'd wanted to kiss someone, anyone, and have them return his so rarely given affection. Someone he'd never have to see again, a stranger he could send on their way and not feel bad about. But now he was starting to think he hadn't wanted a stranger at all.

 

He'd always been content to keep his relations quiet and brief, going for weeks at a time without even the thought of satisfying his carnal needs. But lately he'd been stirred up, more on edge.

 

At a bar for God's sake. Usually he preferred his partners sober, found among the thrall of students that littered his campus. Was it because the alcohol made him feel closer to-?

 

Enjolras shook his head sharply, eyes falling shut as he dislodged that thought only to have it replaced by a flood of others. Hadn't he intentionally sought her out for her appearance? Her thick, raven curls and pale skin had called out to him. His fingers had itched to touch her the moment he'd seen her across the bar. His tightly reigned self control, his restraint, it had all gone out the window after she'd smiled at him. Her eyes had been dark (not blue) but he'd hardly noticed past the light pink of her lips. Her chest had been small and her hips weren't nearly as tempting as some of the other women surrounding them but it had only made her more perfect. Her humor had been dry, her laughter catching...

 

If Grantaire had been born a woman, it would've been Charlotte.

 

Enjolras grabbed his phone with the intent to call Joly but his embarrassment froze his fingers. His friend was the only one who knew that he harbored some strange...fascination with Grantaire. He'd supported it, told him to pursue it, but Enjolras had always refused to agree. Grantaire had always shown him favor, something like lust and hero worship, but he wasn't stupid enough to believe the cynic cared about anything more than his next drink. Maybe it was bitterness, maybe self-deprecation on his end, but he knew the kind of person he was. Aloof, distant, fun to tease and get a reaction out of (though it was usually just Grantaire who took on that challenge). He'd crafted himself into a figurehead, made connections that made him keep his public image in check. It was that above-the-others attitude that had driven his parents apart, his demeanor almost a perfect reflection of his father. The only difference between them what they stood for.

 

Joly would probably just tell him that he was being stupid and that he needed to deal with tonight, to realize that Charlotte was some kind of off-hand place holder for something else he wanted.

 

Enjolras collapsed on his couch, throwing an arm over his face. He was being ridiculous. He only felt something for the frustrating cynic because because Grantaire was so obvious in his... _affection_. It wasn't unheard of to be attracted to someone only because they were attracted to you first. It was a normal response, everyone did it.

 

Enjolras reached down and adjusted himself in his jeans, his cock still half hard despite everything he'd been through that night.

 

Who was he trying to fool? If it was just a simple physiological response he could control it, master it, suppress it. His stomach was tied up in knots, his willpower was slipping, and he couldn't even pick out a girl in a bar without thinking of Grantaire's boisterous laugh or the gleam of his eyes when he grinned. What was wrong with him? What was going to happen to them? If Grantaire found out he'd surely fun on swift feet, escape from his overwhelming presence as so many in the past had.

 

How many lovers had his intensity driven away? How many more would it take?

 

 


	3. The Parton-Minette, Naked Grantaire, and Presents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the true villains of this story are revealed and Enjolras shamelessly ogles a naked, vulnerable Grantaire.

The main core of the ABC (minus Feuilly, that bastard was always working) decided to go out to the pub down the street after a meeting. Eponine had even decided to join them tonight, she'd even gone so far as to call Cosette and invite her along (though the blonde was working the night shift at her parents cafe and couldn't stay for more than hour before she'd had to rush back). True to her reformed ways, Eponine gave Marius his space and made a grand effort to be happy with him around.

 

Marius, always the gentleman, tried his best to allow her that freeness.

 

“And so I ripped up my shirt and yelled, 'There! Now everyone's showing their tits!' ” Bahorel declared proudly. The group erupted in groans and half-laughs behind their drinks, unsurprised by their friends deplorable behavior.

 

“You're lucky you didn't get sent to the Dean,” Marius scolded past his grin, “You shouldn't-”

 

“Oh shut up, princess, you just worry about you and leave old Bahorel to his fun,” Bahorel shot back, taking up his beer and tapping it on the counter, “Miss? Two more beers. One for me and one for my poncy friend right there with all the freckles.”

 

Marius blushed, said marks disappearing in the color as the bartender smiled at him and set a beer in front of them both. Eponine was about to tell them to kiss and get over it when she spotted a group of men coming into the pub, she managed to blanch despite her dark complexion.

 

“For the love of the saints and martyrs, can't we just have a peaceful night out?” Eponine grumbled loudly, catching everyone's attention, “Every night is drama with you people.”

 

Grantaire snugged himself to his side, “What are you going on about?”

 

“Look who just walked in.”

 

They did, and almost in unison everyone took a deep draw from their drinks.

 

Those four bastards walked in. Montparnasse, more their age with bright green eyes like spring and hair as dark as his personality. Claqueous with his dark eyes and superior air, holding himself with all the authority of a man on the fast track to Junior Minister. Babet, thin and talented with his long strides and sharp rings. Lastly, Gueulemer. The mighty Hercules of a man, too thick for grace and too stupid to fake it. _Patron-Minette_ they called themselves, a form of gang to rival their own but without any of the purpose. They were all Political Science majors with matching minors in Communication and Social Service. How they managed to stay afloat academically no one knew, Montparnasse being the only worth worthy of an intellectual fight. Their fathers were all on the Council of Ministers, all close friends to the Prime Minister himself. Awful human beings, every last one of them. Spoiled from birth, hateful to the bone, and horribly entitled. Children who tortured cats and dogs for fun grew up to be people like them. Babet and Gueulemer went to their university but the other two, the more intelligent of their gang, went to a private school with locked gates.

 

The bastards got away with everything from petty theft to assault. From the accounts of a few poor girls, they didn't know the meaning of 'no' or 'stop' either. It was insane what throwing money at people could cover up. They were angels before their fathers but devils here on the street. They received birthday gifts from prestigious people like the Prime Minister and the President and often attended the local, political charities. They were untouchable and dangerous and they _hated_ the ABC.

 

“If it isn't our favorite lost causes!” Montparnasse crowed, his group following closely as he came over, “And Enjolras at the head, as always.”

 

“ 'Parnasse, my friend,” Enjolras's voice was leaking sarcasm.

 

“Shouldn't you be off somewhere shaking your pom poms?” Montparnasse tisked sharply, eyeing the blonde up, “You know you boys look your best in your protest skirts.”

 

“Shouldn't you be off setting fires or harassing waitresses?” the protester cocked his head to the side, “Since you look _your_ best with your true colors showing.”

 

Those insanely bright emerald eyes narrowed, “Oh, you're witty.”

 

“You mistake me,” Enjolras corrected lightly, laughing under his breath like it was all a big joke, “I refuse to have a battle of the wits with you. You're unarmed!”

 

“Watch your mouth!” Gueulemer gritted out.

 

“Now, now, 'Mer, don't be rude,” Montparnasse reached past Enjolras, getting in his space long enough to steal his beer. He downed almost half in two gulps, slamming it back on the counter with a satisfied smirk. The blonde's lips curled in disgust.

 

“So what are you planning for the that little spectacle this weekend in Paris?” Monparnasse inquired like it was the weather.

 

Enjolras's jaw tightened, Jehan frowned.

 

“What spectacle?” the blonde asked before Combeferre elbowed him hard in the side, “Ow! Fuck, what?”

 

“Some right-wingers are planning an outdoor party,” the bright eyed man gave a theatrical shiver, “Complete with lots of anti-faggot signs and maybe even some streamers. It's going to be _God Hates Gays_ as far as the eye can see. I thought that was your cup of tea, Enjolras? Surely you have a little something planned?”

 

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Enjolras feigned a heavy disinterest, waving him off, “How do you know something's even going to happen?”

 

“You have Courfeyrac to sniff things out, and I have Claquesous,” the other replied with a one shoulder shrug, looking so smug beneath the feigned casualness, “His father was the best man at the Police Commissioner's wedding, you know.”

 

Jehan rolled his eyes so hard it looked like it hurt, still rubbing his ribs. Joly made a gagging sound around the lip of his beer that sounded suspiciously like _kiss-ass_.

 

“Even if we were to involve ourselves in something like that,” Enjolras spoke over the snickering of his friends, “It'd be in a much less violent display than what they're planning, I'm sure. We're much too busy with our studies to bother going all the way to Paris to give those bastards something to scream about.”

 

For a moment Montparnasse looked like he'd bitten into a lemon but the expression quickly faded. He instead turned to face Eponine, smiling rather charmingly at her as he took a step closer. It was disarming and quick but she didn't back down.

 

“ 'Ponine,” he purred.

 

“Maggot,” she smarted back in the same tone.

 

“It seems these boys are too busy for the cause, so they must be too busy for you,” Montparnasse snatched her hand, bringing it to his lips, “You should come along with me and let a _man_ show you a good time.”

 

“I see only swine in front of me,” Eponine spat, ripping her hand away, “Don't you touch me.”

 

Montparnasse looked a second away from making a _very_ bad decision so Grantaire stepped in between them, shoving his friend behind him with an assertive air. He shielded her as best he could with his body, staring the bastard down.

 

“You heard the lady.”

 

“And Grantaire!” Montparnasse's hand shot out, grabbing his face and dragging him closer just as he'd snagged Eponine's hand, “Look at you. Flushed and wet with wine, as always. You were sitting much too comfortably there. Don't tell me these boys haven't been keeping you stuffed with cock? No wonder you're so snippy!”

 

Grantaire's hands balled up into fists, rage nearly blurring his vision as he resisted the urge to pummel the man within an inch of his life. He was ready to rip the man's spine out through his mouth when Enjolras's curls (muted gold in this light) blocked Montparnasse from his view. His leader grabbed the bastard's hand and twisted it down hard, they could almost hear the bones grinding together.

 

Enjolras used the leverage to throw him back, knocking the man into Babet and nearly bowling him over, “I believe _we_ were talking, _monsieur_.”

 

“Defending the little bitches, huh?” Montparnasse hissed, clutching his wrist as Gueulemer righted him on his feet, “Or just the one with the pretty mouth?”

 

“And that is enough of that, I dare say,” Bahorel boldly stepped between his leader and the other man, grinning so cheerily it looked sickly sweet, “Montparnasse, you are so harsh. We're at a bar, friends!”

 

Bahorel laughed, opening his arms to the others.

 

“So either sit down, have a drink, and share a laugh,” the man's grin turned feral, his voice twisting into something much too serious for his usual light-heartedness, “Or piss off right now before you have to pluck your teeth out of our fists just to crack a smile.”

 

Claquesous was starting to look nervous, he was always the first to back down, “ 'Parnasse, man, let's just go. Fuck these guys.”

 

“Yeah, fuck 'em,” Babet emphasized, trying to come off tougher than he felt. They were usually pretty stalwart but they always gave up when the ABC had their numbers.

 

“This isn't over, Enjolras,” Montparnasse threatened, backing up as they made their retreat, “See you this weekend. Better get your brass knuckles ready, it's going to get ugly if I have a say in it.”

 

The moment they were out the door, Eponine started fussing over Grantaire. His eyes were still glaring ahead even as her soft hands rubbed over his jaw, easing the ache there from Montparnasse's fingers.

 

“He didn't hurt you, did he?” Eponine asked unnecessarily, protective mode kicked in and impossible to stop.

 

“No, sweet 'Ponine, don't worry about me,” Grantaire bundled her up in a hug, lifting her up onto her stool. He rained kisses over her face until she smiled and playfully pushed him away, relief on both their faces that things hadn't gotten any worse.

 

Grantaire patted her cheek, “They're not going to touch you.”

 

“They won't touch either of you if I have a say in it,” Enjolras swears, turning back to the bar, “ 'Feyrac, cancel our plans this weekend. Tell them we can't make it.”

 

“Enjolras, come on,” Courfeyrac hushed, leaning into the blonde so he could be heard, “We've been planning this for a month. They're going to reign all their stupid anti-gay shit all over Parisian streets and we're just going to sit on her hands and let them?”

 

“What choice do we have?” Enjolras tapped the bar, smiling at the bartender when she exchanged his tainted beer for a fresh one, “With _Patron-Minette_ involved it's too dangerous. That peacock Claquesous probably picked up on it the same time we did, which means they've told their fathers and those blowhards have already assigned police to be there.”

 

“Who cares?” Grantaire scoffed, “We're peaceful! They can't touch us!”

 

“When have we ever kept it cool in front of violent protestors?” Enjolras countered hotly, contemplating taking a sip of his beer to chill his words, “If they get nasty, one of us will end up throwing a punch or shoving someone too hard and then we'll all end up with rubber bullets in our ass and soaked in pepper spray. It's best if we sit this one out.”

 

“But-”

 

“No one's getting hurt because of those bigots!” Enjolras pushed off the stool and yanked his coat back on, expression a perfectly crafted mask, “I've said my peace and counted to three. We're done.”

 

“I showed you that movie!” Courfeyrac called after him but the man didn't look back as he left, “Damn him.”

 

“He's right,” Grantaire stated, taking up Enjolras's untouched beer for his own, “If they know we're coming they might have something nasty waiting for us.”

 

“Agreed,” Combeferre raised his own glass, “Better to let this one go, 'Feyrac.”

 

The dark haired, right hand man dropped his head to the counter in frustration.

 

“But you challenged him,” Eponine pointed out, “If you thought he was right, why didn't you say so?”

 

“It's better for him if he doesn't go for the right reasons,” Grantaire explained off-handedly, “If he starts to think he didn't go because of those assholes it'll creep under his skin and drive him crazy. He'll think they won. But if he puts it to his own terms, not getting us hurt, then he won't see it as a failure. No psychological damage to our Apollo, none of us get bruised, simple.”

 

“That's actually quite brilliant,” Courfeyrac admitted, raising his head to reveal pinched brows, “If you hadn't said anything he would've just beat himself up all weekend.”

 

Combeferre frowned into his empty drink, “I should've thought of that.”

 

“It's what I do,” the raventte took another long drink, trying to come off as casual, “Someone has to play devil's advocate. Fortunately for you guys, I'm one of the best.”

 

Grantaire wanted to boast about all his Enjolras-watching hours being put to good use but he didn't. He didn't want to come off creepy in the way he observed their leader and his habits.

 

“You do appose him quite well,” Courfeyrac huffed, “I still wish we were going.”

 

“We'll double our efforts for the next one,” Grantaire waved the bartender over, “Miss? Shots, if you could. One each. We're having a little mourning party over here so something strong.”

They took their shots together, all grimacing at the taste of defeat.

 

It was still better than a rubber bullet in the ass.

 

 

 

 

 

 

*****

 

Two days later, Enjolras found himself using the key to Grantaire's apartment for the first time. Combeferre had texted him the code and he'd found the door well enough on his own, the door knob was smeared in blue paint. He'd never been there before, he'd never needed to be. Unfortunately Grantaire had drunk himself into a sort of stupor where he'd forgotten how to use his phone or any of his media sites. He had a soapbox routine planned for tomorrow afternoon and he needed his posters and flyers to fuel it. It was a small affair, just Courfeyrac and Marius there to pass out flyers and grab the attention of the people. It was an on campus thing but he had high hopes for it, their teachers had been talking about the Chinese student attacks for the past few days.

 

Enjolras frowned down at the knob until he realized he didn't need to use a key after all, it was unlocked. He opened it without a hint of resistance, the chain lock hadn't even been in place.

 

He rushed in and shut it promptly behind him, “I don't know what you've been dong, Grantaire, but it's time to get out of that bottle and start answering your phone. You've better have finished those-”

 

Enjolras cut himself off, choking hard so hard on the words he made a small strangled sound instead.

 

Grantaire was there, alright. He was nestled in his drunk nest (something Lesgle always teased him about), fast asleep, and covered only by a black robe that hadn't been tied. His face was half buried in his pillow and he was making soft sounds of sleep. His arms were smeared in crimson paint, so dark it almost resembled blood. A deeper shade than the red he'd wiped off the ravenette's face awhile ago. There were white and pinkish scars across some of his exposed shoulder, hinting that there would be more across the rest of him. His robe was bunched up around his waist, revealing the pert swell of his cheeks and the length of his legs. He was soft, he'd never lifted anything heavier than a paint can in his life, but it made him look that much more vulnerable.

 

Enjolras made a noise as his cock swelled in the confines of his jeans.

 

Grantaire grumbled and started shifting around, unconsciously looking for a more comfortable position. The blonde felt his mouth go dry as those thighs parted and his hips shifted, revealing his pink hole but only for a moment before he flipped onto his back with a huff. Grantaire's cheeks were rosy with sleep, lips parted to let out more little sounds that were too gentle to be snores. He'd forgotten until this moment just how strong Grantaire's neck looked arched like that, bare and seemingly untouched by anything. Not even the light. He wanted to taste it, mark it with his teeth and fingertips, give Grantaire the ownership he was always unconsciously calling out for. His chest was smoother than Enjolras would've thought (though dotted in paint), the only hair there a dark trail going down from the dip of his belly button to the thatch around his half hard cock. Oh God.

 

Enjolras tried to look away, he did, but Grantaire's dreams must've been nice to thicken up the line of his cock like that. He looked good, really good. A nice length, just right to deep throat with only a little bit of gagging (Enjolras considered himself a well-experienced man, he knew what he liked). His hip bones weren't cut, not like the media pressured them into looking like, but they were tempting just the same. He wanted to kiss them, could easily imagine himself nibbling on them until the slighter man squirmed.

 

There was something else. More scars lined across his thighs, only a few thicker ones thicker from this far. He took a few steps closer, squinting, catching sight of fainter ones.

 

Grantaire made a sound close to a moan, back arching up to show off the planes of his chest and the dusky hardening points of his nipples. Enjolras's teeth itched to bite them. After a few more moments of languid stretching the drunk promptly curled in on himself, like a cat, lashes starting to flutter as he clawed the blanket up closer to his face. The blonde couldn't bare look away even when those blue eyes he adored cracked open, dark now though usually so bright.

 

“Apollo?” Grantaire croaked, brows drawn together like he was sure it was a dream.

 

Enjolras politely turned his head, averting his eyes to give the other time to compose himself, “Grantaire. Good afternoon.”

 

“Now I know it's you,” Grantaire jested weakly, sitting up, “You are never so polite in my dreams.”

 

“Do I frequent them often?” Enjolras couldn't help but asking.

 

Grantaire gave a rough laugh before he quieted, it took a large chunk of the blonde's willpower not to look again and steal more looks at the other's bare body. But he was gentleman, he even raised his hand to pointedly shield his eyes. There was an unmanly squeak of sorts, a startled sound that a cat might make if you stepped on it's tail.

 

He looked over in time to watch Grantaire finish tying off his robe, a deep vee of his chest revealed and the bottom of his legs but not much else. The drunk grabbed the nearest hat off the floor and shoved it on his head, a olive beanie that shoved down his curls.

 

“I'm sorry if I woke you, though it's-”, he checked his watch, tapping the face of it, “-one 'o clock and you should be up and showered by now. I waited for you at the cafe until Bahorel said you were sleeping off a bender.”

 

“Yeah, I, uh, was finishing some sketches,” Grantaire began to babble, self-consciously tightening his robe around himself, “I changed my idea for my new piece and wanted a red background instead of red in the hair and I realized I couldn't do it without painting over what I already had. But you know if you paint gold on top of red on top of gold it actually looks more tarnished and-”

 

“Is that it?” Enjolras pointed toward the canvas raised high up by the largest window, a ladder perched in front of it, “That seems a bit precarious.”

 

“That's not it!” Grantaire insisted, running over and hastily turning the canvas away so it couldn't be seen by the floor, “Any particular reason you're here or did you come to admire my amazing art?”

 

“That's just a happy side-effect,” Enjolras sighed, letting it go, “I'm here for the flyer design.”

 

“Oh!” Grantaire chirped, rushing to the drawing desk and flipping on the bright lamp to illuminate the scatter of pages spread out on it, “It's here, I promise. Somewhere...”

 

Enjolras came over, standing beside the cynic with a straight back and a raised chin. He managed to pull himself together by the time Grantaire found the poster. It was white at the top and slowly faded into a deep navy. There was a faded white picture along the top, the line of a road visible and the sharp images of broken glass. There was an artistic scatter of blood across them, referencing the twenty year old student who'd had glass thrown in her face. It was high definition, striking. The words below it were in white and printed in a strong font, one of the dozen choices he'd given the artist when he'd presented him with all the options for the style.

 

_How much blood must be spilt on French soil before we achieve equality?_

 

“I added this website to the bottom,” Grantaire spoke up after he thought his leader had examined it enough, “This place runs nothing but xenophobic stories, usually they're pretty severe. I checked it out and it turned my stomach over. I think it'll be a real eye opener.”

 

A sparkle of nerves ran up his spine, “You don't mind, do you? I haven't printed anything off yet, I can still change it back if you want.”

 

“No, it's perfect,” Enjolras's eyes danced over the poster, “Just what I wanted. Simple and sharp.”

 

Grantaire warmed under the praise, “Are you sure there aren't going to be any protests about them? Nothing we can stir up?”

 

“It was leaked that they're the children of Chinese dignitaries. No one wants to get up in arms about some privileged kids,” he took a deep breath that was almost a mournful sigh, “If they'd been regular students there'd be more outrage. Awareness is all we can spread, I'm afraid. I'm going to twist it around, reflect it back on our damaged morals. If I can change even one person's mind it'll be worth it.”

 

Enjolras looked over at him, ready to thank him for doing a good job despite his tardiness, but got caught up in just staring. Grantaire was biting on the side of his thumb, squinting down at the flyer like he was looking for mistakes the blonde had missed. Curls all pressed down, rough stubble along his chin and cheeks, covered in paint, he looked like he needed someone to shove him in the shower and scrub him down. Shave him, brush his hair, clean him up a bit. He looked like he needed someone to take care of him, steer him back on the path a bit. All that unmarked flesh just begging to be stroked, kissed, worshipped.

 

Enjolras cleared his throat loudly, “I need them done tonight. A dozen posters, three dozen flyers.”

 

“ 'Feyrac already gave me the money. I'll get it done before they close and run it to the cafe when I'm finished, no worries.”

 

Enjolras straightened his shoulders, finally locking his composure back in place, “You really shouldn't be lying around on the floor practically naked with your door unlocked. Anyone could've barged in here.”

 

“It wasn't locked?” Grantaire put the poster down, digging the heel of his palm into his forehead, “Jesus.”

 

“Your drinking is out of hand, as always,” he wasn't even surprised at the cold tone of his voice, it was its natural state around the cynic, “You get so bad you can't even make it up to your bed. Which, by the way, is a floor up if you hadn't noticed. This many ladders along with this many bottles makes for an accident waiting to happen. I thought this 'drunk nest' thing was a joke. It's a little sad not being able to crawl into bed, don't you think?”

 

The slighter man's arms crossed over his chest protectively, “I know it's pathetic.”

 

Enjolras felt something closing up his throat, tasting bitter like guilt. He believed in his words but he wanted to gentle his touch, put kid gloves on. Grantaire wasn't fragile but he wasn't sturdy either.

 

“No. You're not... _pathetic_ ,” Enjolras reluctantly let out each word like it was being yanked from his mouth, trying not to give too much away, “I just wish you'd take better care of yourself. It'd do us best if you were a around for a long time.”

 

Grantaire's eyes shot up, wide and trusting enough to break his heart.

 

“It's freezing in here,” Enjolras scolded almost too loud, walking toward the middle of the room and looking around properly, “Why do you have it set so cold?”

 

The slighter man shrugged, “I don't have air or heat. It's cheaper that way and I don't have a lot of money to throw around.”

 

“You're going to get sick.”

 

Grantaire nodded, accepting the familiar strict cadence of his leader's voice. He was used to this, he could deal with this. And if he enjoyed the concern, well, that was just icing on the cake.

 

*****

 

Grantaire kicked up his skateboard as he got to his stoop, tucking it to his side as he ascended the steps. He was running on the sweet, sweet caffeine Fantine had pushed into his hands and wishful thinking for a productive night. He wanted to crack down and finish more pieces that would sell for a pretty penny (and maybe a few ugly ones), but he was pretty sure he'd burn the midnight oil polishing off a bottle of wine and finish Apollo's face. He still hadn't thought of a good border and his subject lacked features, it was getting kind of disturbing. But the bloody background looked fantastic against his golden curls, just like he'd knew it would.

 

The flyers had looked even better all glossed and printed in true high definition. Courfeyrac sure had money to burn when it came to the cause.

 

Grantaire made sure to double lock the door behind him, sliding the chain in place and giving it a good shake before turning around. He paused, frowning as he spotted two tacky bags on the coffee table. He glanced back at the door accusingly. No, he'd been sure to lock it before he left. Someone had come in here and left bags, someone with a key. Combeferre had a key, to come in and shake him awake before class or drop off assignments he'd missed (if the man was feeling generous). Eponine had a key too, he trusted her completely and she loved to drop by when he wasn't home and leave sweets in his desolate fridge. And because she was the best/worst friend ever, Eponine had given one to Enjolras.

 

_You have a key for everyone else, Enjolras, why not Grantaire?_

 

Enjolras hadn't been able to argue that. It was true their fearless leader had a key to each of their apartments, for emergencies or drop offs when they weren't home. Or to lock up after he'd spent the night, too tired to drive home after long hours of discussion or planning. Rarely, it was from too much merriment.

 

Grantaire went over and parted the first bag, peering inside. Confused, he looked into the second one and found a matching set. He pulled them out and set them on the table, examining the two boxes carefully. One was an energy saving heater, the other an equally efficient air conditioner that didn't require being put into a window. Teeth worried his lower lip as he fished out his phone and texted all three, asking who had decided to celebrate his birthday six months in advance. He honestly expected Eponine to shoot back right away and tell him to be grateful and that he owed her. She constantly complained about the temperature of his loft, surely it had been her in a spree of charity.

 

His breath hitched when he got a response.

 

**They won't cost much to run. They don't need much wattage. I have some for my room when central heating gets too expensive. They're pretty effective. - E**

 

Grantaire quickly tapped a message back.

 

**I can't accept these – R**

 

**Nonsense, you need them. - E**

 

**Thank you – R**

 

**Don't mention it. Keep warm tonight. - E**

 

Grantaire collapsed into his nest, staring at the screen with a wide grin. His heart was fluttering rapidly in his chest, fit to burst at any moment. He couldn't believe it. Enjolras had listened to him, worried about him, asked him for help, _and_ given him presents all in the same two day period. And here he'd thought he'd experienced the height of elation when Enjolras had cornered him on campus and asked him to make up some posters for the awareness speech.

 

The ravenette tilted his head back, gazing up at his unfinished painting.

 

Fuck blue. Apollo's eyes were going to _smolder_.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Two Steps Forward and One Step Back

They took to Musain again the night of the rally, a desperate attempt to keep their spirits light despite the underline of tension within their group. Feuilly was with them this time, tired from the day at the factory and happy to sit and enjoy his beer among his friends. His content cooled most of their moods. It was Jehan, their youngest by a few months, who seemed unable to shake a foul temper. He was obviously sulking, elbow on the bar and jaw cradled in his hand as he watched the movements of his beloved.

 

The unattainable Grantaire, generous with his affection but heart heavily guarded from anyone who would destroy it. But even that wasn't quite true.

 

Grantaire was taking down beers like they were water, bouncing between them and a group of students at another table. His feet were light and his smiles were plentiful, inspiring bouts of laughter from his new-found companions each time he left them for his true friends. They were taking shots and sharing fruity cocktails, hand over hand in a way that showed they were all overly familiar with each other. They seemed to mean well enough and kept their noise to their table, kissing cheeks and sitting on one another. They had started the night just offering to buy Grantaire drinks but they'd got equally as handsy with him as the night went on.

 

Jehan's jealousy was growing more visible with each drink.

 

Grantaire bounced back, laughter lingering behind him and on his own lips. He squeezed between Courfeyrac and Enjolras, smiling disarmingly at the blonde.

 

“It's so much easier to be an artist when other people fuel your muses,” he expressed grandly, brandishing the beer they'd bought for him, “Have we settled that bit about Brazil? I still think they should host the Olympics.”

 

It had been a hot topic when he'd left just a little while ago. His statement had whipped Enjolras into a passionate speech about the right of the people to decide how to spend their tax money and if they didn't want a big to-do then they shouldn't have to suffer it. Grantaire was still convinced that hosting that scale of an event would raise poverty awareness and only do the country good. He was ready to defend his opinion but Enjolras was pretending to listen to Feuilly and Joly discuss his growing fear that he had diabetes. It wasn't a real concern, Joly was always convincing himself he had this or that.

 

“Have you let this go so soon?” Grantaire teased loudly enough to make sure Enjolras heard him over the general noise of the pub, “And here I thought their plight had kindled your brightest of passions.”

 

No reaction besides the tightening of the man's fingers on his beer.

 

“Apollo? Have you gone deaf?” the artist laughed, reaching out and tapping his glass with the crook of his knuckles to make it ring, “Joly doesn't _actually_ have diabetes, don't let him fool you.”

 

“Would you just go home already?” Enjolras whipped his head around so fast his curls bounced, lips tight around the sharp words, “Maybe save himself from further embarrassment?”

 

Grantaire's jaw dropped, “Am I embarrassing you?”

 

“Of course you are!” Enjolras snapped, eyeing him, “Look at you. Drunk off your feet and we've only been here two hours. It must be a record.”

 

“I'm not that drunk,” he protested hotly, finding offense in it. He wasn't slurring his words, he wasn't tripping over his own feet, and he wasn't trying to start a fight. Who was he hurting?

 

“No,” Enjolras spat, “Of course not.”

 

There was a disgust in his words that cut Grantaire deeper than he would like to admit. His hand came up of its own accord, body leaning and head dipping. He was a moment away from grabbing Enjolras by the back of the neck and resting his head against his shoulder, his inebriated mind telling him to seek comfort and touch. He had a sudden, desperate wish that Eponine had joined them tonight instead of going to the movies with her brother.

 

Enjolras didn't pull away but there was a pinch between his brows. A silent question to what he thought he was doing.

 

A rational spark ran through the aritst, making him jerk away with a shake of his head. Grantaire plastered on a fake smile before he spun on his heels, heading back to the other group.

 

“Way to go,” Jehan huffed loudly, “A punch to the face would've been nicer.”

 

“Jesus, man,” Bahorel frowned around his beer, “You didn't have to be so harsh.”

 

Enjolras looked around and realized he was getting disgruntled looks from everyone. The only one avoiding his eyes was Feuilly, the man was pointedly staring at the mirror behind the bar.

 

“Why does everyone think I'm the bad guy here?” Enjolras demanded, the cool anger fading from his voice to be replaced with hesitant confusion, “I'm only looking out for his health. In two years, at _this_ rate, he'll need a new liver. Honestly, he should be thanking me.”

 

“Give it a rest already, Enjolras!” Jehan snarled. The harsh tone surprised them all, freezing them to the pits of their stomach. Their youngest, their romantic, their Cupid, their Hestia. They'd never heard him so irate before, so spiteful. It was painful to listen to, his sweet tenor all mangled like that. The blonde slammed his down his shot, nearly cracking the glass with the force of it. He got up and stepped right up into Enjolras's face, a scowl marring his lips.

 

“Would you stop being so self-righteous and handsome and passionate for five fucking seconds and let someone else have a chance!” Jehan barked, making the other flinch and push back into the bar to try and get further away from him, “You are so _God damn_ lucky and you don't even know it. If I got that attention from him for even a minute I'd – I'd – you stupid, blind bastard!”

 

Combeferre came up and grabbed Jehan'shoulder, the younger man swayed on his feet from the sudden pressure. He pulled the blonde away from their leader, whispering in his ear to calm down and take a few deep breaths. Jehan pushed him away and made his way toward Grantaire and the others. The artist greeted him loudly and jovially, dragging him down into the seat beside him with a kiss on his cheek and a brief ruffle of his hair. He showed him off to the group, quickly introducing him. One of the women practically sang her praise of him in Italian, leaning over two of her friends to kiss both his cheeks. They eagerly pushed a few shots in front of him.

 

Enjolras was beyond flabbergasted. His two friends started sharing shots and it brought them close, the once angry youth now full of smiles in the face of Grantaire. He looked down at his drink and decided to blame the whole incident on the alcohol, Jehan's and his own.

 

“That's enough fun for anyone,” Enjolras shed a few bills on the counter, sliding off the stool, “I believe I'll call it a night. Will someone make sure the two of them see the light of day?”

 

“I'll take Jehan home, he lives down the street from me,” Feuilly declared, pointing accusingly over at the other table, “But that stupid drunk is on his own.”

 

“You get nasty when you're tired,” Joly accused, “I'll call a cab and take 'Taire with me, no worries.”

 

“Good,” Enjolras tugged on his light jacket, “Thank you both. Goodnight.”

 

The boys wished him the same, letting him make his retreat. Enjolras had nearly made it to the door before he felt the urge to turn around. Against his better judgment, he looked over his shoulder toward the table. Grantaire was staring at him with raw guilt all over his face. That expression...he looked like he wanted to apologize for something. Something neither of them were sure of. He seemed to need approval, something to show him Enjolras wasn't as angry as he looked.

 

Then Jehan leaned in and placed a sloppy kiss on Grantaire's cheek.

 

No, he couldn't approve of this.

 

*****

 

At Les Amis, the boys were seated at the largest table with their eyes toward the window. Enjolras was pacing back and forth in front of it, today's paper in his hand. He was frowning strongly at it like it had offended him, words just tumbling from his lips. They weren't sure if he knew that he was talking out loud but they'd decided to sit and listen anyway.

 

“I'm still not sure about Hollande,” Enjolras tisked, rubbing a hand over the golden stubble along his chin, “He's done well by the people, for all his power. But he's pushing, slow and constant. Soon it might break. If there's a collapse of the welfare state, if we lose that public aid, there will be riots in the street faster than you can-”

 

Enjolras stopped dead the moment his eyes came up from the paper and rested on something behind them. They got so wide that they all could see the blue capturing the light and reflecting it back even brighter, giving their leader a youthful appearance he usually lacked. His face flamed up impressively, cheeks looking hot as his mouth twitched upward a few times. He only lasted a few seconds before he started laughing. Not his usual chuckle or melodic little sound of amusement, but a full-on belly laugh that echoed through the room. It was deep and real, eyes crinkling up in the corners as his body shook from the force of it.

 

Enjolras doubled over, clutching his stomach as it started to cramp up. Still roaring, he fell to his knees to almost disappear behind the rim of the table. Joly stood in concern, contemplating whether he should get his spare med bag from the shelf or not. Their heads swiveled around to see what Enjolras had found so amusing and they discovered the source to be none other than their cynical friend.

 

Grantaire had his plaid unbuttoned and pulled apart, displaying the t-shirt hiding within. It was black with stark white letters written across the front.

 

**I Don't Need To Get Laid, The Government Fucks Me Every Day**

 

He was wiggling his chest forward, thrusting it out proudly. He was grinning like a loon, quite pleased with his little display.

 

Enjolras's hand shot up, slapping the table while the rest of him was still hidden. He was making choking sounds as he struggled to catch his breath enough to sit up. When he finally did make it to his knees he had mirthful tears in his eyes, face threatening to crack under the severity of his smile.

 

“Can't take it,” Enjolras wheezed, waving his hand at the preening artist, “Oh my God...oh God, stop, stop!”

 

“You like it?” Grantaire inquired innocently, sucking in his cheeks like one of those high-cheekboned models.

 

Enjolras sniffled, resting his chin on his hands upon the table, “You are impossible and ridiculous.”

 

Grantaire just waggled his eyebrows at him, getting another burst of laughter.

 

Two steps forward and one step back was still progress.

 

 

* * *

**All reviews are welcome :)**

 


	5. Grantaire's Mistake and Delrick's Visit

Enjolras pushed open the doors of the Musain with a shiver, the chill in the air nipping at his collar. He could do with a shot or two of something warm and the laughter of his friends. Montparnasse had interrupted two of his speeches today just when he'd been getting a crowd. That and he'd practically shouldered checked him in the hallway, the force of it had knocked his book halfway down the hall.

 

“ _Watch it, princess!”_ Montparnasse had laughed at him.

 

“Hey!” Joly rushed at him, a too-big smile spread across his face, “I'm starving, E, how about you? Let's go grab something, huh?”

 

“What's the rush? We can eat here,” Enjolras patted his shoulder in greeting.

 

“The food's too greasy, it screws up my stomach,” Joly whined, “Come on, the others won't go with me. There's that vegan place down the street, you love that stuff.”

 

“Nonsense, you can find something here,” he slung an arm around his shoulders and led him toward the bar, “I'll buy. I just know that I need something to warm my hands, it's freezing out there. How many of the others are here? Is that Courfeyrac?”

 

He could feel Joly clinging to his coat when he moved past him but ignored it, “Enjolras, seriously-”

 

“Good. We have an oral exam soon and my Russian is still atrocious. Let's see how good he is with a few beers in him.”

 

Enjolras started toward the bar and was only a few feet from calling out to his friends when he spotted a familiar head of dark curls at a booth against the wall. The booths on that end were always filled with eager young lovers who couldn't keep their hands off each other or forbidden trysts trying to steal a moment in the shadow of the dimmed lights.

 

Grantaire was sitting in the lap of a much bigger man. Thick muscle, broad shoulders, and a jaw that could cut diamond. The man had a hand curled loosely around his pale throat, a dominating gesture that kindled a fire of rage just below Enjolras's heart. To make it worse there was a woman in his lap with impossibly long, bare legs. Grantaire's hands were supporting her weight upon him, stroking her smooth thigh and cupping the generous curve of her hip. Straight, thick blonde hair that fell to her waist and blood red heels that screamed power. He kissed her glossed lips like a drowning man, taking whatever she would give him. As he let her devour him, the bigger man was nosing at the back of his neck and into his curls. Scenting him, almost.

 

Grantaire pulled away from her and laid his head back. He caught sight of his glazed stormy eyes before they fell beneath the curtain of his eyelashes. The larger man kissed him for all he was worth, thick thumb pressing hard into the hollow of the artist's throat to make him arch. The woman grabbed a shot off the table and took down half with a smile, digging her long nails into Grantaire's curls to drag his head back toward her. The alcohol was poured between his pink lips, followed by a slow kiss that looked almost obscene.

 

“This has been going on for about an hour,” Joly quickly explained, “We tried to tell 'Taire to leave with us but he's pretty drunk and stubborn at the moment. We've just been hanging around to make sure he doesn't go home with them. They're a couple, I'm sure of it. They've been on each other all night.”

 

The medical student glanced over at them, “That guy gives me the creeps, Enjolras. You should go. We've got things covered here.”

 

A hot rush of possessiveness run through Enjolras, fueling his rage into a burning fury that made his fingers curl into fists and his jaw tick beneath his skin.

 

“Grantaire!” Enjolras bellowed, stealing the attention of everyone in the room (including the artist), “Get up! _Right_ _now_!”

 

Grantaire flushed up to his roots, shame and drinking staining most of his pale flesh. He scrambled out of the man's lap, dumping the woman into the rest of the booth in his haste. The ravenette rushed forward obediently and Enjolras snagged him in the crook of the arm but he didn't look at him, ignoring the puppy eyes he was getting in favor of watching the meathead get to his feet as well. The older man was trying his best to glower but he was pale in comparison to the ABC's fearless leader.

 

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” the man ground out, teeth perfectly straight and strong enough to take a big chunk out of the blonde from the way they were chomping. Enjolras stood his full six foot and looked the man square in the eyes, his own sharp teeth bared in a rather aggressive display. It dripped of words like _alpha male_ and _primitive_. Usually he would roll his eyes at two men facing off like common dogs but this was a special occasion.

 

Grantaire made him do things he'd never dream of doing without his influence.

 

“I'm his friend,” Enjolras annunciated every word like a spark, short and sharp enough to hurt, “And you're not going to lay another finger on him, you fucking brute.”

 

Something in his face must've convinced the larger man because he backed down. Maybe it was his intensity, maybe he thought Grantaire unworthy of a fight, it didn't matter. The man grabbed his squawking woman around the waist and told her to shut up, that they should've never bothered with the locals, that they were all crazy. With a few solid strides, they were out the door and off into the night.

 

Highly aware of every eye on them, at least for the moment, Enjolras dragged him up to an abandoned end of the bar. There weren't even any stools on this side. The bartender, Simplice, started coming toward them with their usual. Enjolras shook his head sharply at her, she colored and turned back around to tend to some other guests.

 

“Pretty boys messing around in bars at night end up dead in alleys the next morning,” Enjolras scolded venomously, his tone hushed.

 

“Well it's a good thing I'm not pretty,” Grantaire tried for a self-deprecating jest but his reward was Enjolras's fingers digging harder in his arm, “Apollo, please, you're-”

 

“You were going to go home with them, weren't you?” Enjolras gave him a sharp shake, “Answer honestly.”

 

“Yes!” Grantaire admitted in a high gasp, head pounding from the three-too-many shots and the harsh motion.

 

He puffed like a bull, “I knew it.”

 

“I'm sorry, Enjolras, I am, I don't know what I was thinking.”

 

“That's the problem, brat, you never _think_ ,” the blonde argued, “You're so wrapped up in your frustrating self-loathing and so deep in your bottle that you don't take a second to think about your safety and those who wish it upon you. They could've done anything to you, Grantaire, don't you understand that? Drugged you, turned you over and taken your wallet. Raped you, killed you, anything! And you wouldn't have been able to stop it because you're so drunk you can barely take ten steps all together without falling over.”

 

Enjolras was starting to waver, his voice losing it's strength to crack around the edges.

 

“I-If I would've woken up tomorrow and saw your name in the paper, or...or one of the boys called me to say they'd found you with your throat slashed in your apartment, I – I – ”

 

Enjolras bit down on his lip, clenching his eyes shut to try and regain his composure. He could see it so perfectly. Jehan or Joly or someone equally as tender toward Grantaire coming into his apartment for some inane reason to find the self-proclaimed cynic sprawled across his couch. Pale neck coated in scarlet, eyes dull and unseeing, clothes still rumpled. Enjolras had read too many things involving unsuspecting curious youths in bars late at night to feel at all okay with his friend's actions. What if they'd gotten Grantaire outside like this? All drunk and pliant, maybe led him into the adjacent alley, plied him with filthy wall sex. And Grantaire, ready for a cheap thrill and a distraction, would've stumbled along with a grin on his face. They'd get him against the wall, that large bastard would've convinced him it felt good without lube, that he'd just need to try it. Even if Grantaire had struggled it'd be no use against someone that strong. They would've killed him right there, just across the road from his friends. It made Enjolras sick, he could taste the bile searing the back of his throat.

 

He couldn't let that happen, not to this boy. This one was his.

 

And _that_ thought scared him more than anything.

 

“I don't know what I'd do.”

 

Grantaire was looking at him all doe-eyed, full of repentance he didn't doubt was real. As much as the artist messed up, he always felt remorseful about it in the end. It was like he was acting out on purpose, like he wanted to be scolded and put back in place.

 

On that note the anger returned. If he wanted to act like a brat he'd get treated like one. Enjolras dragged him over to their friends, still holding him under his arm. There'd be bruises tomorrow.

 

“Who's the most sober?” Enjolras demanded, “I want him driven home by someone he knows. Right. _Now_.”

 

They all seemed to have developed a deer-in-the-headlights complex. No one answered right away, their fear was palatable. Combeferre, the only one who managed to shake off their leader's intense fury, stood up and paid his bit. Enjolras tossed Grantaire into the other man's arms, the artist stumbled over his feet (as predicted) and fell into the blonde. The left hand man was kind and caught him, steadied him, whispering his name in disappointment.

 

“Take him home before he hurts himself.”

 

*****

 

And those were the last words Grantaire heard from anyone for two full days afterward. It was the weekend so he had no reason to go to class, he had no real job, and there were no meetings to feel guilty about. He'd locked up his apartment and stayed put, licking his wounds where no one could judge him. He'd never felt so dirty in his entire life. He knew, realistically, it had been a bad idea from the start. But that woman had smelled so good and that man had grabbed the back of his neck just right...he'd been helpless. And drunk. So very, _very_ drunk.

 

But Enjolras hadn't been there and Jehan had been called into work. So his unrequited obsession and his usual flirting buddy had been gone, and Eponine had bailed at the last minute. He'd never felt more lonely with Courfeyrac and Combeferre talking about Greece's rapid economic decline and what the world could do for it. There was passion there but the kind that came from rich boys playing grown up, desperate but fruitless. Enjolras was full of the ultimate fire and he only talked about problems in the world he could actually change. Contemplating how the _world_ could help Greece seemed so tedious and _boring_ and useless.

 

He loved his friends but they weren't Enjolras. Demi-gods loitering in Apollo's playground.

 

So he'd drank and drank and talked and drank and laughed and just kept fucking _drinking_ like Enjolras was always telling him not to do. If only he'd listened, taken the advice, but that little voice in the back of his head that told him how useless he was had gotten stronger as the night had gone on. And when those two had pulled him over to the booth and bought him more drinks, he'd just gone with it.

 

Getting fucked was all he was really good at, at this point. Taking it hard from a man he didn't know while eating out his pretty girlfriend hadn't seemed like a bad way to end the night.

 

And now he regretted it more than ever had before. He'd never seen Enjolras so angry at him before, it had been terrifying. He forgot, sometimes, that his Apollo was a god. That he had a fury side to match his righteousness.

 

Grantaire slumped around in his dark sweats, finally swiping a shirt off the floor to cover his bare chest. The chill of the night was bleeding into his loft, freezing the hardwood floors so they almost stung his toes. It was the long sleeved, black shirt Eponine had gotten him that had been too big at the neck. She had tried to explain that they were made that way, that it was designed to look artistically loose and show off the dips of his collar bones and the line of his neck but he didn't believe her. It was just too big and she hadn't wanted to admit to forgetting his size. It hung too far down his fingers but at least it hid his soft belly. He didn't own a mirror but he could see his stomach and he knew he should start running or something but he also knew he never would. Being a starving artist kept the pounds off but it didn't make him firm and cut. He'd seen glimpses of Enjolras's hip bones, he'd caught glimpses of his friend's tight stomachs and defined chests. He knew the score.

 

He was getting to the point where anyone who wanted to fuck him was welcome, just to make him feel desirable. Enjolras was right, he was getting kind of pathetic.

 

Grantaire's stomach rumbled and he knew it was time to face the real world.

 

He'd need his sneakers.

 

*****

 

“Pssst? Fantine?”

 

Fantine looked up from the counter, brow furrowing up as she tried to decipher where the noise came from. Behind her from the supply closet, the one that led to the back door. She turned, spotting an unfamiliar red hat barely hiding raven curls. A young man was in the door. The brim raised, revealing blood shot cerulean eyes.

 

“Grantaire?”

 

“Shh,” he licked his lips nervously, “Is anyone here?”

 

“None of the boys at least,” Fantine replied gently, “The promise of rain has sent them all home. Which was where I was told you were.”

 

“I'm starving,” Grantaire confessed, “And there's nothing left in my fridge. I'm going to be honest, I don't have any money.”

 

“My sweet boy,” she cooed, coming toward him with her arms open. He met her half way, gratefully plunging himself within her hug and letting it overtake him. She smelled like spring, clean and fresh, she always did. Even soaked in coffee she managed to come off like a daisy. She was warm against him, her long fingers dancing across his back in a soothing way.

 

“I heard what happened,” Fantine breathed, pulling back and cupping his cold cheeks, “I know what you must be thinking and I beg you not to. You are worth everything in the world, Grantaire. You are smart and funny, and have the largest capacity to love that I've ever seen inside one lone person.”

 

She got on her tip toes and pecked a kiss across his forehead, smooth lips soothing what was left of his nerves, “So stop this sneaking around and sit down. Eat as much as you can and I want at least two glasses of water in you before you leave.”

 

He couldn't argue. He followed her to the last booth and let her sit him down, taking off his hat and smoothing his hair as she fussed about taking care of himself. She disappeared only long enough to return with a piping latte that had the fancy caramel sauce he loved. He was two sips into it when she spoke again.

 

“He's looking for you, you know.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Who else?” Fantine tisked, “He wants to apologize. He thinks he's sent you into this self-imposed isolation and I believe he's actually _sorry_ this time. Truth be told, every time they come in here Jehan and Enjolras both ask about you.”

 

“Aw, have Combeferre and Lesgle given up on me?” Grantaire called after her retreating back, hiding his small satisfaction behind the lip of his cup. Enjolras had asked about him? In a positive way? That would be a first.

 

It took a few minutes before Fantine emerged again with a sandwich and soup plate, another dish with warm blueberry muffins in the other. She set them both in front of him with a pleased air, as if she was proving once more how much of a good mother she could be. Though Cosette had accepted Valjean as her stepfather long ago it seemed as if Fantine was always trying to make up for the lack of a biological parent, doubling her maternal efforts until they spilled all over the ABC.

 

“No, of course not,” Fantine picked up the conversation, leaning against the side of the booth, “Lesgle knows where you are and how you deal with things. Combeferre swore he wouldn't go after you until tomorrow, and only for class. He said you were entitled to your tantrum but he wouldn't let it fall over into your academic life.”

 

“Good men,” Grantaire ate with a gusto, fingers nearly shaking from that low blood sugar Joly was always talking about, “And delicious food, as always.”

 

“If it's not homemade then it won't make you feel better,” Fantine stroked a hand down the back of his head, “Give a whistle if one of the boys come in and I'll run interference so you can make a run for it. I'll be up _there_.”

 

They both looked to the ceiling, just above that the second floor.

 

“I believe my husband's up there and I intend to find him.”

 

“Good luck.”

 

“I believe I'll need it.”

 

*****

 

Grantaire knew the moment he touched the doorknob and turned it that something was wrong. He'd forgotten to lock the door, sure, but this neighborhood had never had a problem with theft. Something was really _off._ The air was different, hitting his nose like ozone. Like a smell but not, more a sensation than a scent. It only gave him a few seconds of pause before he couldn't take it anymore and had to shove the door open.

 

Grantaire wished he had accepted Fantine's offer to stay at their house tonight. She hadn't wanted him to be alone another night. But it was too late for that. Wood colored eyes fell upon him and he knew he was trapped.

 

“Delrick,” Grantaire greeted as warmly as he could muster, tossing his hat and jacket onto the floor, “You look-”

 

_Manic._

 

“-well.”

 

“You're still wearing those dandy hats, huh?” Delrick grunted out what could've been a laugh, “Jesus, Grantaire, are you _trying_ to declare to the world that you like to suck dick?”

 

Grantaire ran a hand through his hair, not caring how messy they looked, “Is father fairing just as well? What about Jenessa and the other boys?”

 

“They don't miss you.”

 

“No, I suspected not,” Grantaire sighed lowly, casting an eye around to see the damage his older brother had already started to do, “What brings you here?”

 

Delrick was an imposing six-six with well-muscled arms that came from those endless hours at his expensive gym. Father had given him two vineyards to run and he'd somehow managed to turn them into the two of the most-visited places in a hundred miles. Unfortunately they were pumping him more money than he could spen, but the stupid bastard was doing his damnedest with all his partying and drug-use. He had a healthy crop of dark hair cut too short to develop the family curls, those eyes just as bland and brown as their father's. He had almost a hundred pounds on Grantaire and had never failed to use it to his advantage.

 

This wasn't the first time nor would it be the last that Delrick came just to rattle his cage.

 

“Oh 'Taire,” Delrick made a show of looking offended, “Can't a guy come check up on his precious, _faggot_ , baby brother without getting the third degree?”

 

Grantaire could feel his teeth grinding together as he tried not to say anything. It was better if he kept quiet. Delrick always made a fuss before throwing a punch and going home. It was just something to be endured. A little hazing ritual he had to go through for his running away. It was better than facing his father. Even as a fully grown man of twenty-two the thought of facing _that man_ scared him out of his wits.

 

“I still can't believe you spend all of mother's money on this _crap_ ,” he punctuated the last word with a casual swipe of his hand, sending one of his many small bottles of pre-mixed paints falling and crashing to the floor.

 

“It's better than what you'd spend it on.”

 

He'd wanted to keep it in his head but they fell from his lips. He wanted to pick them back up and cram them back down his throat but it was too late. Delrick's nostrils flared and he came at him like a clumsy predator, meaty hands grabbing his collar and slamming him back up against the door. Seeing his brother's eyes up close he realized they weren't darker than usual, they were blown.

 

“What are you on?” Grantaire searched his brother's face for a sign of the usual stuff, “What the hell did those _friends_ of yours give you?”

 

Delrick outright laughed this time. He let go of the artist's lapel and smoothed out the wrinkles he made, a faux-sweet gesture that actually scared him more than the charging. The older man turned away and started toward the far wall, head tilting back to look up at the painting by the window. Grantaire's heart fluttered in his chest, the start of adrenaline drying out his mouth.

 

“What's all this shit?” Delrick grabbed onto the legs of the easel, starting to drag it around to get a better look, “Is that your little boyfriend or something?”

 

Delrick shook it hard and the painting fell. Even under the influence of God knows what his brother's hands were still deft from years of forced tennis and football practices, still strong and sure like that of an athlete. He caught it and peered at the unfinished features and nest of golden curls, the exaggerated start of flaming eyes and smoke trails.

 

“What a piece of shit,” Delrick's fingers were getting dangerously tight on the edges of the canvas, “How you sell any of this junk I don't know. You never could do anything right, baby brother, and that reaches right into this art bullshit.”

 

Grantaire imagined he heard a rip and he sprung into action before it became a reality. He launched himself on his brother's back, surging forward to grab his wrists and dig his thumbs into the soft of them. Delrick growled and let go of the painting, letting it clatter to the floor as he tried to dislodge the smaller man from his back with heavy-handed pawing. Grantaire held on for dear life.

 

Delrick snagged him beneath the arms eventually, using pure strength to actually flip him over his head and down onto the floor. He landed flat on his back, crying out from the force and the sudden sharp heat. Glass. He'd fallen on glass from the broken jar. He arched up and off it, rolling onto his stomach. Tiny bits stung his palms but he ignored them to get to his feet, glaring down his snarling older brother. He didn't let his eyes dart to the painting, he didn't dare.

 

“Come on, motherfucker,” Grantaire spat, “You think I'm afraid of you?”

 

Two hits. He got two really good hits in. One to his brother's kidney, the other to his perfect jaw. After he'd connected he'd taken a moment to feel jealous of the way his brother could achieve that impossibly smoothness that his own chin couldn't, no matter how he shaved he always seemed to have a five o' clock shadow. He didn't have much time to contemplate it before he took a punch to the temple so hard he saw little spots.

 

Delrick gave him no mercy. The punches were hard but sloppy, never hitting the same spot twice. His stomach took most of the damage, his ribs seeing some action he'd been hoping to avoid. His older brother finished with an upper cut to the chin, a cheap shot that rattled his teeth and made him bite his tongue. He fell hard, landing hard on his throbbing belly.

 

“Fucking cocksucker!” was followed by a kick to the back of his legs, his kidneys, the curve of his back, “You think you're so much better than us with your useless protests and your pathetic club?”

 

A heel dug into his side, making his ribs scream in protest. Iron was filling his mouth, pouring over his bottom lip to puddle on the floor.

 

“They might think you're some cool freedom-fighter, Grantaire, but we both know what you are,” Delrick put his weight into the pressure, forcing another whine out of his youngest brother, “Pathetic. Worthless. Weak. _Suicidal._ A drunk who's gonna die in this shithole alone and forgotten. And don't you forget it.”

 

Grantaire clenched his eyes shut and curled up on himself. He heard his brother stomp over to the shelves a few seconds before he felt wetness rain over him, the clatter of paint cans loud in the quiet loft. It would stain the floor but he wasn't going to see the deposit anyway. Not if his brother had anything to say about it. A part of him believed Delrick would kill him right there in his apartment but a larger part knew his father wouldn't want to deal with the scandal.

 

He listened to Delrick come over to him and prepared for the kick he promptly received. It was aimed at his head and he managed to bring his arms up to let them take the worst of it.

 

Mental note: He needed to send his brother moccasins for Christmas. His boots were killing him.

 

Grantaire cracked his eyes open in time to watch his brother storm out, leaving the door wide open behind him. Just like every other time but with possibly broken ribs, no big deal. He tried to convince himself he was fine and functioning as he pried himself up off the floor, blood and paint making him sticky. His arms protested but he had to get up, he couldn't let here and rot. He looked down and found himself splashed with his favored royal purple, ebony, and stark white. He tried to remember everything Joly had ever told him about bar fight injuries. He took a few deep breaths but didn't feel any sharp stabbing like a broken bone would indicate, just a heavy ache. He couldn't remember anything more than that.

 

 _Joly._ He needed Joly. He did some quick math in his head and decided it was worth the pain to walk down to his friend's house to get a full treatment. He didn't dare open his mouth for fear his jaw was dislocated or cracked. If he needed a hospital Joly would know the instant he saw him. He silently thanked the God he didn't believe in for sending him a med student as a good friend.

 

He made sure to lock the door on his way out.

 

*****

 

The walk to Joly's apartment was only five blocks but it felt like hours with the burden of his bruises and throbbing ribs. The night was cold on his blood hot skin, hopefully slowing down the swelling. Oh God, he didn't want a fat jaw. That's all he needed, to be stared at for more than his slap-dash appearance. The few people he passed couldn't help but stare. He was still bloody-mouthed and pain spattered, he wasn't surprised.

 

Joly's apartment was more of a house, a good-sized place with a great rate that made for an awesome meeting place. He'd been there a hundred times, had stayed over for movies and take-out more times than he could count. He was a good guy and he'd know what to do about...about...

 

Grantaire looked down at himself, frowning.

 

About all _this._

 

Grantaire ascended the steps and knocked his fist off the door a couple of times, the brief movement sapping the rest of his strength. The door opened in the span of four painfully slow breaths, light spilling over him from the hall. He winced and raised a purple stained hand, shielding his eyes.

 

“ 'Taire?”

 

“What's up, Joly?” Grantaire tried to smile but the taste of his own blood made him cough, “Got a few minutes to help me out?”

 

“Get in here,” that was his all-business voice so he obeyed, “What the hell happened to you?”

 

“Delrick came by for a visit,” Grantaire replied honestly, shuffling toward the living room, “We had a disagreement. Long story short, I think he broke my ribs and I'd _really_ like to know if I'm about to drown in my own blood or if my tongue's on fire for no reason. Because either I nearly bit it off or I punctured a lung. I'm not a doctor, I'm just guessing. Think you can clear it up for me?”

 

“Quit talking for a minute,” there was a hitch in Joly's voice that told him the older boy was suppressing his usual panicked worry, “Breath slow and shallow. I need to make a call and get my kit. Just stand by the coffee table and don't move. If you have a broken rib...Jesus, just go stand over there and wait.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Grantaire took the spot with a soft huff. He stood there and concentrated on not breathing too deeply, fingers extending and curling in little pulses at his side. He didn't want to start cataloguing his injuries, because if he did he'd launch himself into a panic attack, but he realizes quickly that the knuckles on his right hand were getting stiff and swelling from punching his brother. Totally worth it in the long haul, his dignity would thank him later. He ran his tongue over his teeth and felt relief when they were all there, all still stuck in place. His tongue had taken a serious chomp and it was painting his mouth red but it didn't feel like anything more than annoying. No salty foods for a while.

 

Joly rushed into the room with a bag. His face was all pinched and he looked like he was ready to cry. It was his concerned face, Grantaire knew it well. Joly dropped to his knees in front of him and pushed a hand up under his shirt, fingers gentle at first before they found his ribs. His friend's green eyes were unfocused and staring past him, eyesight checked out to give touch all his attention. The prodding was efficient and painful, sure fingers finding every rib and running it's length with care.

 

“Nothing broken,” Joly kept feeling for another few seconds before dropping his hand with a sigh, “Nothing cracked. Let's get your shirt off and see the damage.”

 

Shoving aside his usual body-consciousness, Grantaire let his friend help him peel his shirt off. Joly started at the bones of his fingers, inspecting each knuckle, before going over his collar bone and shoulder blades. No broken bones of any kind, though he loudly protested he'd know if something like his clavicle was even cracked. The cataloguing he'd been avoiding earlier was rattled off out loud for him.

 

“Everywhere you're red right now will be bruised up in just a few hours,” Joly informed him, cleaning his busted knuckles with some peroxide before dousing them in spray bandage, “Your ribs, jaw, temple, and back are going to color pretty badly. Sit down, we need to ice you down and get that glass out of your back.”

 

“I've got-”

 

“Yes,” Joly pulled out a medical pack and cracked it, handing it over to the artist, “Hold this to your jaw. I'll send a few home with you and I want you to put them on your ribs while you're lying down. Alternate between your chin and your jaw or your face is going to swell. Expect black eyes.”

 

“I didn't get punched in-”

 

“Your brother has big fists and too much strength,” Joly produced tweezers, “You ready?”

 

“As ever,” Grantaire hissed when the icy pack touched his chin, relaxing as it started to feel good, “Just be careful, okay? Oh, and there might be paint on them.”

 

“Then I'm giving you some low-dose antibiotics to take home, take them for a week just to be safe,” Joly settled behind him on the table, “God damn it, Grantaire, I can't believe...just hold still.”

 

Joly had the touch of an angel but it didn't matter. Where he'd fallen on the shards they'd embedded themselves in pretty deep, jagged and at weird angles. A few fell free with only a slight tug but the others drew strangled noises out his throat. Joly whispered _I know_ over and over as he tried to make quick work of it, but rushing only made it worse.

 

Grantaire started to cry out when he heard the door open, the sound winding down to a whimper by the time the time the person appeared in the doorway. Blonde curls, dark red jacket, and wide eyes. The artist immediately swallowed down any more noise, refusing to show that weakness in front of his leader. He could feel the color drain from his face, his fingers started to shake in his lap.

 

He'd been hoping to avoid this. He hadn't wanted Enjolras to see him like this, bruised and fucked up by his own blood. After the incident in the bar he'd convinced himself that his Apollo would never want to talk to him again. He'd seen the disgust in his eyes, the violence in him. He hadn't thought of an adequate way to make it up to Enjolras, to prove he wasn't awful and promiscuous. And until he'd come up with a grand gesture to change his mind he'd decided to stay out of the blonde's way.

 

Enjolras's eyes raked over him, every injury burning hot under the scrutiny. He could almost hear that brilliant mind sorting and categorizing every red mark and smear of paint on him, filing it away under _damaged_ or _Grantaire's mistakes_. Maybe both.

 

“Who did this?” Enjolras demanded fiercely.

 

“Grantaire's older brother,” Joly calmly explained, laying two more pieces of glass down upon the gauze spread out on the coffee table, “He decided to pay him a visit. It got ugly.”

 

“Delrick,” Enjolras spat through gritted teeth, hands balling up into fists.

 

“The very one.”

 

The older boy stormed in and started pacing immediately, like he was ranting about marriage rights or race equality, “I knew that man was a brute from the moment I met him. He parades around with your family like he's so high class but he's nothing more than a common thug. The bastard's been arrested and released more than a dozen times on drug charges. How dare he!”

 

Enjolras stopped dead, turning to face them, “Has he done this before? Did he take anything?”

 

“No and no,” Grantaire could hear bitterness souring up his words as he recalled everything his brother had said, “He just came to check up on his precious, _faggot_ baby brother.”

 

Enjolras hurried over and dropped down on his knees in front of him. The position went straight to Grantaire's dick, the blonde between his parted legs and staring up at him with all that earnest passion in his beautiful eyes. His strong hands came up and took one of his own, his paint-smeared fingers looking so pale between the other's tan digits. The hands that had made signs and petitions, the hands that had gestured so sharply at crowds, the hands that wrote speeches and papers and letters...those same hands that he admired were cradling one of his own. He had neat nails, clean, and his thumbs were rubbing across his skin.

 

Grantaire was so light headed he thought he would faint.

 

“With one word from you, I'll go out there right now and beat him within an inch of his life,” Enjolras promised, “I'll make it look like an accident.”

 

“What?” shock took his voice up an octave, he cleared his throat and tried again, “You can't be serious.”

 

A wrinkles appeared between his dark blonde brows, “Deathly serious. Why wouldn't I be?”

 

The artist continued to gape.

 

“Grantaire, he hurt you. He _beat_ you. You're going to be bruised for weeks,” Enjolras tightened his grip on his hand, “I won't be able to look at the marks on your body without thinking of bashing that blowhard in the face with a tire iron.”

 

“Don't break your moral code for me,” Grantaire shook his head, curls bouncing around his ears to remind him that he hadn't grabbed his hat on the way out, “Enjolras, you're a pacifist.”

 

“A _political_ pacifist,” Enjolras corrects him lightly, “This is personal.”

 

This was wrong. Enjolras was rarely violent, he scarcely played things so close to the chest. He always refused to use his cold ruthlessness for anything more than rallies and debates. He worked out regularly, his body was as fine-tuned as his brain. He had the capability to be the worst kind of tyrant but he'd always claimed that those were the kind of people he was intent on usurping.

 

Grantaire felt a true smile crack his face, tongue aching, “No. Not for me.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

He nodded.

 

“You need to shower,” Joly said softly, making it sound more like a request than an order, “I don't want the paint seeping into you anymore than it already has.”

 

Grantaire nodded again, feeling a little ridiculous with his hair going everywhere. He waited for Enjolras to stand before he did but he found himself unsteady.

 

“Don't move too fast,” Enjolras laid a hand on his hip, holding him in place so he didn't fall back down onto the table, “Did you walk here?”

 

“What else?” Grantaire's once pale cheeks were burning hot now at the casual touch, eyes on the floor. He'd burn up alive if he looked into his Apollo's face. Enjolras graciously moved aside and allowed him to make his way to the bathroom, leaving behind his embarrassment. The moment he closed the door he smiled again, cheeks flushed for a whole different reason. He could hear Enjolras start another tirade about his brother and his family, and as he stripped off his shoes and socks he could hear the topic change to high class families in general. How they shunned their black sheep children like they were unwanted kittens, how wrong it was.

 

Enjolras was defending him. It sounded so wonderful in his head that he had to mouth it to himself. Enjolras was out there defending him and wanted to go beat his brother half to death, would've if he'd just asked it of him. He started the shower, letting the water get as hot as he could stand it before he shucked off his pants and underwear. The paint was mostly dry and it would stain his clothes but that wouldn't stop him from wearing them in public. He was an artist after all.

 

Grantaire stepped in with a few low hisses, body shuddering as he adjusted to the intense heat and pressure. Most of him protested the touch but Joly was right, he needed to wash it off so he could sleep clean. He was glad it was his latex based stuff, it started to come off with a bar of soap and some scrubbing. The expensive oil based paint he usually used took vaseline and days and scrubbing and baby oil to get off. Colored rivulets started pouring down his body as Enjolras's words drifted through the bathroom, half distorted by the water but the blonde's sharp tone carried. Gay rights, high-society families thinking they can bully around any member that refuses to conform to their standards of perfection.

 

Grantaire's smile crumbled as tears started to well up in his eyes. They wobbled briefly before spilling down his cheeks, disappearing into the spray from the shower. He scrubbed twice as hard, making his skin ache and turn a harsh red.

 

Enjolras would do this for any of their friends. If this had happened to Courfeyrac or Combeferre or Jehan...well, maybe not Jehan, but he always had a rough time with the kid. If it had happened to anyone else, Enjolras would be here and just as outraged. They all came from good families (except Feuilly) and these passionate rants could apply to almost any of them. He wasn't special. It was that same stupid trap he always set up for himself. His guard dropped and he let himself hope, let himself fall into a place where Enjolras could love him. Like in his dreams and fantasies.

 

Sometimes he forgot that he hated himself. Every time Enjolras said something so profoundly sweet like that he forgot all the reasons they could never work.

 

Enjolras wouldn't even have to defend their friends. If Grantaire had been as strong as Feuilly, or as adept at brawling as Combeferre (though he pretended he didn't know how), as silver-tongued as Bahorel on a sober night, as likeable as Jehan, as quick to react as Courfeyrac, or as perceptive as Lesgle...maybe if he had been half the men his friends were then he wouldn't have needed saving.

 

They weren't weak little faggots who let their big brothers beat the shit out of them because they didn't want a stupid painting damaged.

 

Grantaire slapped a hand over his mouth as an ugly sob broke past his lips. He braced himself against the wall and tried to smother the noises, pulling his hand away only to dig his fingers into his hair and pull. The pain helped, it grounded him and made him remember reality. His other hand dug his nails into his forearm, drawing crimson marks so close to bubbling blood that they stung.

 

“Stop crying,” he whispered, scrambling to pull himself back together, “You infant, _stop_.”

 

By the time the water started to cool he had calmed himself down. He toweled himself dry and found only a few dozen spots of color left on himself. He considered it an overall success. His body was getting stiffer and more sore, he had a long night ahead of him. Joly had slipped some new clothes into the bathroom while he'd been busy feeling sorry for himself, his others taken probably to the wash. He put them on and found that they fit pretty well. He put on a mask of “I'm totally okay” and pushed open the door, walking to the living room with only a bit of a limp.

 

Enjolras was sitting on the couch and shot up to his feet when he came in. Joly was putting away everything, keeping four ice packs and some antibiotics out. He put them in a bad, eyes downcast to give them an illusion of privacy. They wouldn't need it.

 

“I'm sorry Joly called you out this late,” Grantaire stated, proud that his words were as calm as he'd intended, “It was a waste of your time. Joly, do I need stitches?”

 

“No,” Joly came over and gave him the bag, “I believe you'll manage without them.”

 

“Then I'm going home,” Grantaire gave a dramatic bow, ignoring his ribs, “Night guys.”

 

“Wait!”

 

A sense of deja'vu came over the artist but he shook it off, turning around.

 

“I'm driving you home,” Enjolras said it like a demand, leaving no wiggle room.

 

“It's five blocks with lots of one way roads, it's going to take twice as long than if I'd walked,” Grantaire reasoned.

 

The blonde didn't flinch, “But you'll be thrice as safe.”

 

“I don't want you out there by yourself,” Joly adds.

 

Grantaire threw his hands up, “It seems I don't have a choice.”

 

*****

 

Grantaire had never been inside of Enjolras's car before. It was a sleek silver thing, spotless on the inside, and it smelled like cinnamon and that earthy cologne he wore sometimes when the mood had struck him. The artist resisted the urge to tell him the two scents clashed and that he either needed to switch soap (which he'd never do, it was heavenly) or stop wasting his money on the spray. He wanted to put his nose in Enjolras's neck and breath him in, to tell him in all honesty that his skin smelled better than any artificial stuff he could put on.

 

“I've been looking for you,” Enjolras confessed after a few minutes of silence, “I haven't had an opportunity to talk to you about that night at the bar. About what happened.”

 

Grantaire tried to push deeper into the seat and disappear but it just wouldn't swallow him.

 

“I apologize.”

 

Blue eyes snapped toward the blonde, he noticed, “Don't look at me like that!”

 

Grantaire turned his head back toward the window but the surprise didn't fade.

 

Enjolras pursed his lips before wetting them, realizing he'd taken a step back by snapping, “I wanted to...to apologize for my behavior at Musain. I had my reasons and they're valid but I shouldn't have made a scene like that. You're a grown man and I shouldn't have treated you that way. We're equals, Grantaire, and I apologize for making you feel otherwise. You can make your own choices. But when I saw that man with his hand around your throat I just...”

 

“I like men like that,” Grantaire risked a glance over at the activist to find him looking at him, his eyes skirted back to the window, “Powerful, you know? Maybe it's sick but that's the kind of thing that gets me off.”

 

Grantaire didn't know what prompted him to say those words but there they were, out in the open. There was turning back now. He could taste more things on the tip of his tongue, so close to telling Enjolras just how powerful he found him. How intoxicating his strength was, how refreshing his passion, how it breathed life into him like nothing else in the world could. At least he'd stopped before he'd said anything too embarrassing.

 

It was a full street of driving before Enjolras cleared his throat, “It's not.”

 

“What?”

 

“Sick. It's not. We all just have-” Enjolras recalled Charlotte and her curly hair, “- _types_. And that's yours. There's nothing wrong with knowing what you want.”

 

Grantaire put the side of his fist to his lips, some of that smashed hope from his shower inflating up within his chest. The car pulled to a stop outside his building, headlights illuminating the sidewalk. He unbuckled but didn't move, trying to think of a good way to thank him.

 

“Is there anything I can do?” Enjolras inquired, palms skimming the curve of the steering wheel, “Anything at all?”

 

“You mean besides smashing in my brother's face?”

 

The edges of his full lips quirked up, “Yes, besides that.”

 

“No, I'm fine,” he lied. He wanted someone to stay with him, to sit and talk until he fell asleep. And more importantly he wanted it to be Enjolras. He wanted to card his fingers through his hair, have those strong fingers massage the ache out of his shoulders, let his lips learn the shape and thickness of his cock. It would be so easy to crawl across the armrests and into his lap, push the seat back until he could completely straddle him. Taste his lips, take every comfort he could out of that fit body.

 

Grantaire pushed open the door and scooted to get out. He stopped when he felt a hand slide across his shoulder and up the back of his neck, a solid weight that made him go boneless. He turned just enough to see the pleading look on the other man's face. He looked like he wanted to say so much more but he didn't, letting his touch say what it could. He loosened his grip, palm moving in more of a caress down the length of his neck. It sent shivers down his spine, goosebumps cropping up across Enjolras's arm and Grantaire's shoulders.

 

Like a cold wind, like what could be if they let it.

 

“Goodnight, Apollo,” Grantaire whispered. It took all his strength to drag himself out from under the blonde's touch and into the cold night, the door slamming shut with a thud of finality. He didn't look back, he couldn't. He punched in the key code and darted inside, refusing to let himself suffer any more pain. Especially not at his own hands.

 

He missed the way Enjolras watched him all the way to the door. He didn't see that once inside and safe, Enjolras looked down at his own hand as if in mourning.

 

*****

 

Grantaire answered the door much too early the next morning.

 

“Is that what you're wearing?” Combeferre barely looked up from the phone to assess his outfit, “Good thing it's just class and lunch.”

 

“Lunch?” Grantaire rubbed a towel over his hair, “I've just showered, I'm not leaving yet.”

 

“Get an over shirt on and let's go, I'm starving,” the blonde furiously texted back his best friend, Courfeyrac was being particularly petulant this morning about banner designs, “Well? Hurry up, I haven't got all day.”

 

Grantaire gave a great grunt of frustration but he obeyed, throwing everything (including his shoes) into his backpack and plucking a white and red beanie off the shelf. He ran quick verbal list of everything he needed, picking up only his box of charcoals before he went to the door again. Combeferre huffed and griped about his standards for living but made sure he locked the door behind him. When Grantaire had his head turned, the blonde slipped his spare key on top of the doorway where only someone who was looking for it could find it.

 

*****

 

Lesgle and Jehan jumped when Joly suddenly slid onto the bench between them, shocked out of their biology assignment. It was bullshit lab work but they'd both skipped so they were doing their best. Glancing at the blonde wearily, Joly turned his shoulders toward Lesgle and looked him straight in the eyes. Jehan could take the hint, he wasn't welcome to the conversation about to take place.

 

“Do you remember Delrick? Grantaire's older brother? Well, he stopped by last night and thoroughly thrashed him.”

 

But fuck them, it was Grantaire and his attention was captured.

 

Lesgle frowned, “That's awful. Is he alright? Is anything broken?”

 

“He's pretty bruised up. After he was done using him as punching bag he probably knocked over a lot of 'Taire's paint. He didn't say anything about Delrick throwing his stuff around but he was coated when he came to my house. I mean, I had to pick paint-speckled glass out of his back.”

 

“Christ,” Lesgle cursed, “Has anyone told Enjolras?”

 

“I called him first, I'm not stupid,” Joly huffed, “E lost his damn mind over it. I thought he was going to start throwing my apartment around by the way he was pacing. I'm telling you, if 'Taire had given the word, Enjolras would've been in jail last night for straight up murder.”

 

Lesgle gnawed his lower lip, “You think he would actually kill Delrick?”

 

“You didn't see what I saw,” Joly made a face, deciding against saying anything in front of Jehan about how he thought the two of them should get together, “Anyway. I wanted to know if you can come over to 'Taire's with me and help me clean up the mess his brother left. You know he'll leave it until the End of Days so I thought we could show him we love him and scrub it all up while he's in class.”

 

“I want to go,” Jehan butted in, “I can help.”

 

Joly turned towards him, meeting his eyes dead on, “You can only go if you swear to me that you're doing it because you care about Grantaire, not because you want to sleep with him.”

 

“What?” the romantic snapped.

 

“We all know you have a hard on for him, Jehan,” Lesgle pointed out, “If you're just trying to score points with him by doing this, stay home. But if you actually want to do something nice-”

 

“I love him!” Jehan blurted out, sounding so juvenile it made him cringe.

 

Joly shook his head, “You're an idiot.”

 

Jehan flushed brightly, looking even younger.

 

“Be nice, man,” Lesgle told the medical student. Once he was sure Joly wouldn't jump down the younger man's throat, he turned his attention back to the blonde.

 

“If you swear not to flirt, you can come.”

 

“I won't.”

 

*****

 

Combeferre dropped him off after class. He went inside and found three of his friends outside his apartment. They were red handed and satisfied, beaming at him when he approached.

 

“What are you guys doing here?” Grantaire asked good-naturedly.

 

“Joly told us what your brother did,” Lesgle replied, “So we decided to come over and clean up the paint and whatever else got spilt. We straightened up a bit too. Hope you don't mind.”

 

The artist thumbed behind him, “Did Combeferre-?”

 

“Yeah, he got you out of here early so we'd have a couple hours to clean,” Joly couldn't help but smile when the artist looked surprised, “We just wanted you to know that we care about you, 'Taire. Nothing is going to change that. Not your shitty brother and definitely not anything you could do.”

 

“Come here,” he sounded breathless, filled with gratitude, “All of you.”

 

Grantaire pulled them one by one into a fierce hug, dropping chaste kisses on their cheeks in thanks.

 

Still locked in Lesgle's arms, Grantaire spoke in a choked whisper, “I don't know how I keep forgetting what great friends I have.”

 

“That's because you're too busy creating all that art in there,” Lesgle tried to lighten the mood, smacking a wet kiss on his cheek before they parted.

 

“I can stay with you if you want,” Jehan offered sweetly, “Just in case your brother comes back.”

 

Lesgle slung an arm around his shoulder, squeezing the blonde hard enough to hurt as he put on a grin, “We all will if you want, 'Taire.”

 

“I'll be fine, no more worrying for my sake,” Grantaire waved it off, “But I think I'm going to have a deadbolt installed.”

 

“Good idea,” Joly nodded, making a face, “So good, actually, that I already asked Feuilly to come by tomorrow morning before work to put one in. Since you're hopeless at house repair and we're all shit at it.”

 

“I don't deserve this,” Grantaire gushed, eyes wet with unshed tears, “Fuck, you guys are amazing, you know that?”

 

“Oh shut up,” the medical student handed over two pills, “Take these tonight. One's a pain killer, one will make you sleep. I want you to lay down for the entire night, okay? And eat well in the morning?”

 

He accepted them, “I will.”

 

“Did you ice your ribs last night?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And?”

 

“I feel much better,” Grantaire promised, pulling his friend into one last hug, “I love you guys, seriously. I'll see you tomorrow?”

 

“Night 'Taire!” Lesgle called, watching his friend walk through the door before promptly punching Jehan in the shoulder.

 

“Ow!”

 

“I thought I told you to quit it,” Lesgle pointed a finger in his face, scolding him lowly enough that their friend wouldn't hear from inside his apartment, “You know he loves Enjolras, I know you do. So what are you trying to pull?”

 

“I'm not...” Jehan glanced at the door, “Enjolras doesn't give a fuck about him. I don't understand why he cares about him so much. I'm just trying-”

 

“That's enough, shut up,” Joly rolled his eyes, “Let's get out of here before you start licking the door.”

 

*****

 

Grantaire walked up the ladder, mounting his elbows on the top and just looking at his painting. There was only one splash of color from the entire incident, a splotch of royal purple. He'd spent last night contemplating it. There was no way to erase it. Once color was on canvas it was just more material to work with. He'd decided that the purple, once mixed into a dark rich blend, would make an amazing border with the red already around his Apollo. Thankfully, the bit of paint was only on the corner.

 

The painting would be amazing when it was finished.

* * *

**This chapter's a little rough, it's about 3am but I wanted to crank this out tonight. I'm aiming for a day and a half each chapter. I'm not exactly happy with how this chapter turned out but I believe the boys took a big step forward in their relationship, don't you?**

**Review if you've got anything you want to see, any suggestions, I'm open to all of it. Or if you have something nice to save, I love that even more**


	6. Fanmix and Quick Note on Character Appearances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a chapter, don't be upset. BUT! Good news! A fanmix!!

I have created a [fanmix](http://8tracks.com/stevi-lynn-5/you-paint-what-you-can-t-have) that I think goes along with the story pretty well. I tried not to just shove my favorite songs in there, I really did. But I seriously think of the boys when I hear these songs. I hope you like it! If you want to download it off 8tracks, just head over [here ](http://thirdletter.com/)and do that. 

Another quick note. Had a friend ask me what the boys looked like, like if they were based off the book or the movie. True facts: I'm basing them all off their movie actors. Personality-wise, both. Looks wise, just the movie. Haven't finished the book yet, hopefully I'll get that done soon. But unlike their 1800's french counterparts, these guys will have a happy ending. 

Hope you enjoy the mix!


	7. Texting and Sketching

The campus library took up a good chunk of space of land. All polished oak and curved doorways, cathedral ceiling carved with thick support beams and stylish arches that really opened up the building. The collection was massive and the lights were few and far between, dimmed to slow the ageing process of some of their older works. Thankfully every area that wasn't dominoed with bookcases was covered in plush seats and sturdy study tables. Strong reading lamps with multiple settings were dotted at every chair and couch.

 

Joly and Enjolras had taken up one table to themselves, two subjects worth of books and notes scattered across the surface in a curve around them both. Half year exams were looming closer every day and they were starting to feel the heat. They worked well together, conversation sparse as their communication relied on their notes and pointing. It was heavily frowned upon to converse aloud on this end of the library and they took it very seriously. Both of them worked a few hours here when they could spare it, Courfeyrac had a full time position that he used to complete advantage to study (the lucky bastard).

 

Enjolras was pushing his hair for the umpteenth time and contemplating a hair cut when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out without looking away from his notes, unlocking the screen and clicking the icon with practiced motions. He expected it to be Courfeyrac with news about the Texan filibuster or Lesgle getting back to him on when they could have a get-together at his house, he expected anything but what he got.

 

**Did you know that, in accordance to it's size, the shrimp has the largest penis in the world? - R**

 

Enjolras sighed in fond exasperation.

 

**Unless that's a mnemonic phrase to help me remember my Russian conjugates or the bones of the fingers, I don't see how that's helpful – E**

 

He got a reply straight away.

 

**Who says I was being helpful? - R**

 

A smile played over his lips.

 

**How are your ribs? - E**

 

**Colorful – R**

 

**How are you holding up? Has he contacted you? - E**

 

**Not a word. I won't see him until he gets really high and decides he wants to take his brotherly duty from me in the form of a pound of flesh. Bastard – R**

 

**Your family shouldn't treat you like this – E**

 

**My family hates me, Apollo, what do you honestly expect of them when I've made such a disgracing spectacle of my life? They're just embarrassed. Other than this little incident, it's usually just some insults and a punch or two before he storms out – R**

 

Enjolras's heart sinks to the pit of his stomach.

 

**Don't get your wrathful panties in a twist, it's over for now. I, for one, have already forgotten about it – R**

 

His fingers tapped out the only thing he could think of to say.

 

**You're anything but a disgrace – E**

 

**But you agree that I'm a spectacle :) - R**

 

**Yes, truly you are that – E**

 

Joly glanced at his friend when he released a little laugh, more a huff of breath than a real sound.

 

**Seriously, how do you feel? I can drop off more ice packs on my way home if your ribs are still tender -E**

 

**You know what would make me feel better? A hot little number in a nurse outfit. THAT would be perfect. I'd heal in hours – R**

 

A little surge of jealousy stung its way through his chest. Without really thinking, he typed out the first real step he'd ever taken into flirting back with the artist. Hitting the send button sent a thrill to chase that jealousy, settling in his groin and sending the blood rushing south. He adjusted himself discreetly beneath the table, glancing up at his friend (who was ignoring him and his texting).

 

**I'm not sure I have the legs for sheer black stockings but I could give it a try – E**

 

There was a long pause between texts, much more than before. Enjolras re-read the passage in his anatomy book three times before he understood what he was reading, and even then he didn't retain it.

 

**Why, Apollo, I believe you have the legs for anything. Though I pictured you to lean more toward golden sandals or combat boots – R**

 

Enjolras breathed a huge sigh of relief.

 

**Would that speed up your healing process? - E**

 

**Maybe if you showed up in a toga with those golden sandals that lace all the way up to the thighs, my ribs would stop aching and I could take a full breath without wincing. And if you could find one of those fake swords and maybe a headdress made of those Olympic gold leaves, that'd be great – R**

 

**I'll make it a point to stop by the costume shop on the way home – E**

 

**I would settle for seeing you – R**

 

Enjolras swallowed thickly, regret making him frown.

 

**I have class after I'm done here. And I have to be up early tomorrow for a morning shift before the meeting – E**

 

There was another pregnant pause, the anticipation made his palms sweat.

 

**Texting is good too. I don't have nearly enough Enjolras-texts on my phone – R**

 

Enjolras could almost hear the self-deprecating smirk. The kind that Grantaire wore when he was really putting himself down but wanted people to laugh about it.

 

**Come to the meeting? - E**

 

**I still look like a hot mess – R**

 

**Please? - E**

 

Enjolras mouthed the word as he sent it. There was a desperation in him to see Grantaire again and as soon as possible.

 

**I'll come. At Les Amis? - R**

 

**Of course – E**

 

**Will you be wearing your costume? - R**

 

**I don't think that'll be wise – E**

 

**That's true. The boys will get all flustered if they see your upper thighs – R**

 

Enjolras chuckled behind his hand, trying to stifle it.

 

**I think they're more prone to laughing. My thighs aren't impressive enough to send men to the fainting couches, I'm afraid – E**

 

**You have no idea, do you? - R**

 

The blonde dropped his hand back onto his abandoned book, brows knitting together.

 

**You're like the embodiment of the Victorian era. You emphasize your sexuality by suppressing it, by coming off as someone who doesn't need it. Seeming above the needs of the body only makes you more desirable – R**

 

Enjolras could feel his ears burning, the heat catching across the curves of his cheeks.

 

**Or a geisha. Every exposed wrist, every flash of stomach, even a hint of chest hair...it drives people crazy. You tend to favor a lot of long sleeved shirts and when you don't you like to keep your light jackets on. Very stylish but it tends to make people wonder what you're hiding under all those layers. The more you don't show the more people want to see it – R**

 

He was breathless, knuckles white around the phone. He thought of the way Grantaire stared at him, how he would sometimes catch the artist watching him at odd times. Was he thinking these things in those moments? Was he waiting for his sleeve to ride up to expose the pale inside of his wrist? Did Grantaire contort and lean and generally go out of his way to observe him taking off his jacket? He knew the other held a torch for him but did the sight of his forearms make him breathless?

 

Did his heart pound the same way Enjolras's did when he saw Grantaire stretch his neck and expose the vulnerable line of his clavicle?

 

Joly let out a growl as he slammed his book, a sharp sound in the quiet room, “For God's sake, Enjolras, quit dragging this out and just tell him you love him already.”

 

The blonde's eyes snapped up from the screen, cheeks red now from being caught. He struggled not to let any shock show on his face, his emotions bubbling up to the surface without any permission. He couldn't let Joly see them. Whatever he was feeling was new and private, something he didn't want to share with Grantaire let alone anyone else.

 

“I don't love Grantaire,” Enjolras's eyes obediently went back to the screen when it buzzed in his palm, “I tolerate him.”

 

**I'm sorry, that was out of line - R**

 

Joly rolled his eyes dramatically, “You're an idiot and you love him.”

 

**No, it's fine. Do you really think all that is true? - E**

 

“There's next to nothing about Grantaire that someone like me would find favorable, let alone mate material,” Enjolras replied in a cool, detached tone, “He's an alcoholic-”

 

“He's sad.”

 

“-he smokes,” Enjolras continued without pause, eyes on the phone.

 

**Of course I do - R**

 

“Less and less,”

 

“He doesn't have a real job, he's getting a useless degree, he's careless and brash and flirtatious,” the blonde let it out in a rush, unsure if he was trying to convince Joly or himself now, “And he doesn't have a future! We shouldn't even be allowed in the same room together!”

 

They were getting looks. Enjolras snapped his mouth shut, lips blanching as he pursed them.

 

“He's also warm, friendly, skilled, creative, and exceptionally big-hearted,” Joly countered sharply, choosing to keep his voice low, “He has a future, I know he does. Just because his career doesn't sit right with you doesn't make it any less valid. He's an amazing artist and if he had more drive he could be successful but he's too wrapped up in you and your _causes_ to think of himself.”

 

The medical student watched his friend text, “You're not a cruel man, Enjolras, not when it comes to your personal life. If you really hated all those things about him you wouldn't still be texting him.”

 

Enjolras stopped mid-text, accidentally hitting send.

 

**You flatter me, I don't thi - E**

 

“I know you're at least physically attracted to him,” Joly pointed out, getting a hard look, “There's no shame to it, Grantaire's incredibly handsome. I see you stealing stares when he bends over to grab his bag or when his shirt rides up. You're always stopping yourself from touching him and standing too close when the others are around. And lately it's been getting worse. I don't know if you're coming to terms with it on a subconscious level or what but it just proves what I'm saying.”

 

The phone buzzed, they both looked down at it.

 

**I think I stole your words, Apollo. This is a new feeling – R**

 

“For God's sake, Joly,” Enjolras rasped, sounding wrecked to his own ears, “I would know if I were in love with him.”

 

Joly narrowed his eyes at him, “Are you sure?”

 

Enjolras's jaw dropped, gaping like a water-starved fish. The phone demanded his attention and he gave it to it.

 

**I like it :) - R**

 

“Have you ever been in love?” the other needled persistently.

 

Enjolras went to give an immediate _yes_ but had to stop, the word sticking in the back of his throat.

 

“Have you ever had someone in your life, _romantically_ , that stayed around for more than a year?”

 

Enjolras dropped his eyes to the table, “No.”

 

“Your top is what, three weeks?”

 

He shifted in his seat, an uncomfortable under his skin, “Yes, about.”

 

“And I bet in those three weeks you either spent all your time in bed or apart, right? _And_ I'd put money on your whole 'keep the people free' campaign and all that freakish power you have sent them packing?”

 

His full lips turned into a full frown, cheeks still ruddy, “What are you getting at?”

 

“Grantaire enjoy your passion, he feeds off it,” Joly explained as gently as he could, sensing his friend's tension, “He's been around for two years. He's in love with you, like serious hearts-and-flowers-and-rainbows-fairytale-let-me-ride-off-into-the-sunset-with-you-or-die-trying kind of love. He puts up with your shit, he's perfect for you. You're being as ridiculous as him.”

 

The dumbfounded look on Enjolras's face only angered him.

 

“You know what? Nevermind,” Joly started to shove his stuff back into his messenger bag, “I'm just putting this out there: You wouldn't know love if it punched you between the eyes. It's worth a sit and think, isn't it?”

 

The older boy just continued to stare, still frowning like he really couldn't understand what he was saying.

 

“Just meditate on it or something,” Joly pulled the strap over his shoulder, “You two are giving me a hernia and I'm going to send you the doctor bill.”

 

Enjolras didn't say a word as his friend stormed off, mind buzzing. What he said...it couldn't be true, there was no way. Maybe he had a minute crush on the artist, _maybe_ , but it was nothing to write home about.

 

Though on that note his parents would be pleased with him for it. They rejected his sexual orientation but his mother would never stop gushing if he'd managed to nab the black sheep of Grantaire's prestigious family. She'd probably spin it to say they'd run off together, were living a forbidden life and desperate to return home but too in love to do it. That thought made him a little sick.

 

He would know if he were in love. He'd be the first to know. But maybe...highly unlikely, rare, and inconceivable.

 

But maybe.

 

God, he was never going to get any work done.

 

*****

 

They gathered at Les Amis with coffee and pastries to celebrate the rejection of DOMA in the states. It had been in the back of their minds for a few weeks now and it was a cause worth rejoicing about. But their Enjolras, as always, only saw this as a step in the right direction and more of a reason to work harder than to party. They needed to redouble their efforts, they needed to bring that kind of progress here to France.

 

“How can we eat beignats and drink to America's health when gays here in Rouen herself can't give blood? How can we be happy for that over-indulgent country when our right to get married and be just as miserable as the next straight couple is at jeopardy?”

 

Courfeyrac nodded along solemnly, Lesgle grinned and stifled his laugh.

 

Enjolras began to talk about the upcoming protest at their sister college's campus. The university had elected itself a rather bigoted president that was calling for a campus-wide anti-gay policy. Nothing as openly kicking them out but just as good as. No outted gay couples were allowed to express affection on the grounds, for starters. The most harsh was the new enforced rule that each student was to wear at least three articles of clothing belonging to his or her assigned gender. Blatant suppression.

 

Grantaire was listening attentively but his hands were idle and soon found occupation with his drawing pad and pencil. He half-ass sketched out a genderfuck version of Lady Liberty, giving her a small chest and cropped hair. But he stopped somewhere around her hips, slowly losing interest as the minutes ticked on. His eyes flickered up to their leader, their righteous Apollo, and he was lost in building passion of his speech. About their sit-in, about their demands, it all flowed over him until he too felt like they could change the president's mind. Enjolras had truly found his spot in the room. Pacing in front of the window like that made the light positively dance in his hair. When he turned his head just so they could all see the complicated blue of his eyes and how bright they were with the close promise of rebellion.

 

Grantaire's fingers started moving with renewed fire, eyes dancing between the older man and the paper in quick glanced to make sure he got the look right. The start of eyes, the highlight of eyebrows, emotion coming through with each brush of lead. A furrowed expression of righteous concern came alive. Just that strip of his face, from the hint of nose to the top of his eyebrows. The most serious part of him. His touch became lighter as he carefully tried to capture the intensity in his eyes. After a few more minutes he'd gotten it pretty close. He scooted it toward Jehan, asking quietly what he thought.

 

“Brilliant,” Jehan breathed, head cocked as he looked down at it.

 

Combeferre caught a glimpse of it and frowned, shaking his head. Grantaire could almost hear the scolding the older man wanted to give about paying attention and flaunting his crush so obviously in front of the others. Combeferre knew, of course he did, and he didn't exactly disapprove as long as it meant the artist stayed focused. This was, in fact, the opposite of that.

 

Grantaire made a face at him and slid the pad back over, glancing at Marius before offering it. The other abandoned his own notes and grabbed the sketch book off the table, gawking at it like he'd never seen art before. To be fair the two of them never did spend much time together, the rich boy had never been by his place like most of the others had. If he were to hazard a guess, Marius had probably only ever seen a handful of his artwork. There were no sides in the group after that whole picking-Cosette-over-Eponine thing, not really, but if there were Grantaire would be firmly planted on the side of his best friend. Marius was a busy kid with his law degree, he rarely had time for rallies and protests. That and his father was always threatening to cut him off. But he and Enjolras had grown up together, playing with the same building blocks with matching silver spoons in their mouths. They'd shared a nanny, a playpen, a street, a schoolyard, and now a university. It created quite the precarious position for the young artist. The best friend of his unrequited love, the unrequited love of his best friend.

 

He should write a poem.

 

“Look at this, 'Feyrac,” Marius insisted, shoving it into the ravenette's chest, “It's amazing!”

 

Courfeyrac reluctantly stopped listening and writing and took the sketchpad. He studied it for a moment, sharing it with Lesgle.

 

“Impressive,” they chimed.

 

“Let me see!” Eponine insisted, pulling it to her, “Wow, R, this is really good.”

 

The book was passed from hand to hand. Grantaire reached out in a futile effort to try and get it back, worried all of a sudden that what he'd done would be considered childish. Enjolras stopped talking and his heart set up a brand new rhythm, one that almost choked him. The blonde came over and gracefully snatched the book from Eponine's hands. She started to protest before she realized who was looking at it. She shot her best friend a hesitant smile, it didn't help.

 

Enjolras studied the drawing, slowly walking around the table until he stood behind the artist. He was quiet, face carefully blank as he took in the image.

 

“I believe I know these eyes. They seem startlingly familiar.”

 

Grantaire could feel his face heating up. He laid his hand along his hat and pulled it down, attempting to hide his face. The moments stretched on until he couldn't bear it any longer. He tilted his head back, catching the small smile on his Apollo's face. It was beautiful.

 

“If you put this much effort into our rallies or your commission work, you'd be a fiercesome thing to behold, 'Taire,” Enjolras stated, laying the sketchpad in front of the ravenette, “Good work, but pay attention for a moment if you could spare it.”

 

Grantaire made a startled sound as the blonde laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, heat going through his scapula and down into his spine. It was a brief touch, a pat really, but it made him feel like a grammar school boy again. He looked up to find the others staring. The same thing was on everybody's mind.

 

Since when had Enjolras become so forgiving and indulgent of their local devil's advocate?

 

 

* * *

**You know what makes me write faster? Reviews~**

**The more I write, the closer we're going to get to all the good bits**

 

 

 


	8. Dinner and a "How They Met" Flashback

The hour grew heavy on his eyes as he and Marius left class, trudging with heavy feet out the wooden doors and into the night. The sky was clear and the stars were unusually bright, but maybe that was just their weary eyes seeking something beautiful after hours of listening to a boring lecture and taking monotonous notes until their fingers hurt.

 

“I don't know about you, Grantaire, but I found the June Rebellion inspirational,” Marius said on the coattails of a yawn, “Thrilling, actually.”

 

“One, I don't believe you,” the artist snarked, “Two, inspirational my ass. It was tragic and painful to listen to. I could never do something like that.”

 

“You couldn't stand up for the rights of your friends and countrymen?” Marius tisked sharply, “I may not know you well, my friend, but your heart is made of stronger stuff than that. Surely you couldn't hide while people were trying to really make things happen?”

 

“I wouldn't just be hiding, I'd be passed out drunk in a wine cellar while it happened,” Grantaire swore.

 

“Is there nothing that would make you fight?”

 

“No.”

 

“Not even if Enjolras himself asked?”

 

Grantaire stopped walking and turned swiftly on his heels, glaring down the freckled boy, “What did you just say?”

 

“You're so active with the ABC, you throw yourself into every protest my dear E can cook up,” Marius tried to sound casual in the face of the ravenette's heated glare, “I just thought that you would-”

 

“What? Go to battle for him?” Grantaire didn't sound nearly as venomous as he was trying for.

 

“Well...yes.”

 

Grantaire grit his teeth, he couldn't bring himself to lie to his innocent face, “It's better than anything I'm doing now, I assure you. Sure. Why not? Let's build a barricade and fight for the welfare state, shall we? I'll bring the liquor.”

 

Marius gave an uneasy laugh, catching up with him to walk side-by-side toward the road. They usually walked to his car before Grantaire took off into the night with his skateboard. A few minutes of extra security, a silent agreement. Maybe they weren't close but they weren't strangers. They'd exchange words about the class or the day in general before parting, each slowly trying to learn more about the other without being obvious. For Marius, it was learning about the man who was almost the exact opposite of his best friend. For Grantaire, it was trying to see what Enjolras found so endearing about the freckled boy with the curious eyes and the near-innocent heart. Not as precious as their Jehan, but close.

 

The artist rubbed his eyes, really digging his fists into them to try and clear the sleepiness from them. He heard Marius say something but couldn't decipher exactly what it was. A hand caught him by the arm to keep him from running straight into someone's chest. He started a stream of apologies and lowered his hands to see golden curls and a generous mouth quirked with amusement.

 

“Good, I caught the both of you,” Enjolras didn't look away from the rapidly blinking artist, “I wanted to make sure you knew about the meeting tomorrow morning. It's early because 'Ferre and 'Feyrac have work and class. Can you both make it? It's important.”

 

 _'Ferre and 'Feyrac_ sounded almost musical in his voice.

 

Marius made a hissing noise, “I'm sorry, Enj. I have a family breakfast I can't get out of. They're demanding Cosette to come and it's all I could do to have them to agree to a public place.”

 

“Can't you wriggle out of it?” Enjolras pleaded, as much as a man like him _could_ plead, “We're going to finalize the plans for the sit-in. I would like you there.”

 

Grantaire wasn't sure what they were talking about. The freckled boy made another face.

 

“For Christ's own sake, Marius, don't tell me you can't at least go to that?” Enjolras actually looked pained, “You _promised_ me or do you not remember that you missed the last three protests? If you don't want to be a part of what we're doing that's fine, I can forgive your selfishness, but to lie is unacceptable. Has your sainted family ruined your honest spirit or is this just the man you're becoming? Because if it is, I don't believe I'd like to be a part of it.”

 

Marius looked thoroughly whipped, flushed in shame and head bowed. Enjolras may be beautiful but he could be so terrible when he wanted to. Grantaire hurt from just hearing it, like he'd been tongue-lashed instead. The blonde was still holding his arm when he looked at him, eyes narrowed in accusation.

 

“You'll be there, won't you?” Enjolras inquired, “For the meeting and the protest?”

 

“Of course,” he nodded quickly, though he didn't remember what the protest was exactly. At least not when each breath was filled with his Apollo's rich scent.

 

Enjolras loosened his hold and stroked down his arm, a look of gratitude on his handsome face. He echoed the words _of course_ quietly and released him, eyes shooting over to Marius.

 

“Eponine has agreed to bail us out if needed. Even those who can't stand with us will be helping.”

 

“Stop guilting me,” Marius lower lip quivered, “You know my father, you know what he's like.”

 

The protester finally softened, a sigh escaping his lips, “Forgive me. Sometimes I forget how young you really are. The next one, I hope?”

 

Marius brightened considerably, the street lamp catching the green of his eyes brilliantly, “The next one, I promise.”

 

Enjolras held up a finger and almost said _no promises_ but was cut off by a sharp rumble. He blinked, hand dropping to his side as he looked to Grantaire. The artist was rubbing his stomach but promptly stopped when he realized he was being watched.

 

“What?”

 

“Was that your stomach?”

 

Grantaire tried to shake his head in denial but his belly betrayed him, giving another harsh roar that showed just how hungry he was. He hadn't eaten in more than twenty-four hours and it was starting to set in on him. He smiled it off, heel digging into the hollow of his gut.

 

“When was the last time you ate something?” Enjolras asked, it sounded more like an accusation than an inquiry.

 

“Yesterday,” his stomach murmured this time, he snapped his hand away from it, “Morning. Yesterday morning.”

 

Enjolras's eyes got all wide, really close to sympathy but more along the lines of disbelief.

 

“That's it,” Enjolras threw his hand at the younger man, “You, go home, get sleep and have fun parading your sweet girlfriend in front of those hellhounds. 'Taire, put that ridiculous death board in my car and let's go.”

 

Grantaire was already obeying, following the blonde step for step as they all three made their way back down the sidewalk, “Can I ask where we're going?”

 

“To my house to eat then to yours,” Enjolras answered flippantly.

 

The artist started to protest but got hushed.

 

“You're starving and you need something nutritious, not that usual swill you cram down your throat,” the blonde ordered softly, not looking back to see if he was being followed (like he knew they'd keep step with him), “I need to cook anyway. It'll be no trouble. Hurry up, it's getting late and it's just going to get colder. You don't even have a proper coat on.”

 

The cadence was familiar, nurturing, even with its edge of scolding. He could deal with this, he could handle Enjolras's scolding and picking and nagging. What he couldn't deal with was the prospect of going home with his Apollo and eating dinner together. _Together._ Like friends, like a date. Just the two of them. An intimate interaction. His heart was humming at the thought of eating food prepared by the hands of his unattainable demi-god.

 

He needed to stop that train of thought before his hero worship made his heart burst.

 

“Goodnight, Marius,” Enjolras called in a very efficient tone, pulling his keys out of his messenger bag and flicking through them for the right one. The freckled boy waved at them, slowly walking toward his own vehicle as his expression grew increasingly more confused.

 

Grantaire couldn't blame him, the whole scenario was strange. Before a few months ago (and that was being generous) Enjolras had shown him no more attention than his light scolding. Now he was patting his shoulder, defending him, taking him home for dinner. It was all happening so fast even _he_ couldn't keep up.

 

Enjolras barely paused at his door, “Get in.”

 

Grantaire shoved his skateboard in the back before ducking inside, the familiar scent of the car gradually rising up to meet his nose. There was less cologne now, a hint of real soap, but that unmistakable cinnamon flavor was still there. That scent had haunted his dreams as of late and it was hard to keep his reactions chaste. He buckled up and set his backpack between his thighs like a good boy, refusing to protest anymore after the flippant way Enjolras had disregarded him earlier. If simple logic wasn't going to win him over then maybe he wasn't meant to refuse. Maybe the universe was being lenient today, finally giving him a gift after years of shitting on him.

 

How kind. Hopefully it didn't send him headlong into a stroke.

 

Deciding to calm his nerves, Grantaire cracked the window. He pulled out a pack of smokes and his favorite dark red lighter that matched the color of the protester's jacket. He smacked the bottom a few times before pulling one out with his lips, letting it dangle as he struggled to get the lighter to work with one hand. He could feel twin holes burning into him so he dared to look. Sure enough, his friend was glaring.

 

“It's bad enough you drink the way you do,” Enjolras began, eyes going back to the road, “Smoking is just pushing your luck. Do you know how many chemicals are in those things? Have you seen what it can do to your throat, your soft palette, your senses? It can rob you of your very vocal chords.”

 

Grantaire looked down at the pack in his hand and frowned around the cigarette. The package was smooth plastic against his skin, shining as they passed the street lights. He thought of the way Enjolras had laughed at his stupid t-shirt, the way he'd grabbed his neck and held tight as if afraid to lose him. Offering him dinner. The way he would sometimes just _stare_ , deep and all-knowing, cutting into him in the best way possible.

 

Compromise.

 

“You really hate it that much?”

 

Enjolras nodded tightly, “I honestly do.”

 

He couldn't help but badger, it was in his nature, “Why?”

 

“Because it could _kill_ you,” he countered smoothly, honestly, “And I hate anything that could do that.”

 

Grantaire rolled the window down a little further. The air was getting crisper, too cold for the summer. He let the wind kiss his face for a few moments before he tilted his hand out past the pane, the pack swept out of his palm before he could even try to grasp it. The lone cigarette went next, falling out of the cradle of his lips.

 

He looked over. Enjolras was staring for a whole different reason.

 

“See?” Grantaire held up his hands palms out, “That's that.”

 

“Just like that?”

 

“Just like that,” Grantaire leaned back in his seat, “Wish I had known this morning that was my last pack, I would've smoked a lot slower. Oh well. _Si les souhaits étaient des poissons_.”

 

Enjolras had to force himself to pay attention to the road instead of the ache in his heart.

 

*****

 

Enjolras's apartment was as clean-cut as he thought it'd be. It was swatched in shades of tan and very light on the clutter. He could see the very essence of _Enjolras_ in every corner of it, though. Cork boards were up on the wall full of flyers and maps with red pins stuck all over them. Contact numbers with hastily scrawled notes below them, pictures of council members and their relationships with each other, all the things a young up-and-coming world changer would need. His bookshelves, unlike Grantaire's own, were filled to the brim with books and (again) very clean.

 

“Make yourself at home,” Enjolras shed his shoes by the door and hung up his coat, “I'll start dinner.”

 

The kitchen was connected to the living room with only a counter to separate them, the cabinets above it giving a thick strip of view into the cooking area. The artist watched intently as his friend rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and started pulling out ingredients from the pristine fridge, followed by various pots and pans. It looked so casual, so normal.

 

Grantaire couldn't help but start to look around. Protest stuff, yes, but there were a few more bits that intrigued him. There were picture frames above the fireplace filled images of smiling blondes with aristocratic noses and cold eyes. Enjolras was smiling, closed lipped and fake, but _smiling_ with his arm slung around the shoulders of a young woman. There was a steady stream of soft noise from the kitchen that revealed the occupant was distracted with the start of their meal. If he wanted to ask anything now was the time.

 

“Who are these people?” Grantaire pulled the picture off the narrow shelf and held it in front of him, showing it to the questioning blue eyes.

 

“My family,” Enjolras replied simply.

 

“Hmm,” Grantaire turned the picture frame over in his hands to look at it again, “They're all very handsome.”

 

“Yes, I've noticed,” Enjolras dropped his eyes as his tone hardened, “It's part of their charm, I suppose. You can get away with murder when you have a radiant smile.”

 

The young woman with said smile was probably his sister then.

 

“Do you keep in touch?” he set the picture frame back down, making sure it would stay standing before lowering his hand.

 

“They disowned me, just like I disowned them,” Enjolras's jaw was visibly clenching beneath his skin as he chopped up a medley of vegetables.

 

“I'm sorry, I didn't know.”

 

“It's fine,” it was only a half-lie, the tightness around his eyes gave it away, “I love them but I couldn't stand by their selfish morals anymore. My mother overlooked so many horrible things and my father wasn't as corrupt as some but he wasn't innocent. I could see where he was going and I didn't want to be there for the ride. I knew that if I wanted to make a difference then I had to cut myself off from the kind of backhanded people I despised. That or change their mind.”

 

The chopping got a little harder than needed.

 

“I stopped going to holidays after I realized they wouldn't even spare a minute to listen to a different voice, a different opinion. Mother said I was spoiling their appetites with all my equality talk. I get mandatory calls to make sure I'm alive, cards in the mail with money, a present now and then.”

 

He started unwrapping the meat, seasoning it with red salt that stained his fingers.

 

“I'd give it all up if they'd just listen to me. _Truly_ listen.”

 

Grantaire came closer to the counter, rolling the words around in his mouth before letting them out, “Is that why you're so good at all this 'for the cause' stuff?”

 

Enjolras paused in setting the meat in its proper pan, “Excuse me?”

 

“You're making people you'll never know listen and change their views because the people who once meant the most to you won't?”

 

“That's...very insightful,” Enjolras put the roasting pan in the pre-heated oven, not looking at him.

 

“Is it wrong?”

 

There was a long, painful pause. The blonde rinsed his hands slowly, making sure to get every scarlet colored grain off.

 

“No,” Enjolras toweled off his hands, “It's painfully right, 'Taire.”

 

Grantaire slowly let himself into the kitchen. The blonde silently offered him a water and he took it, anything to soothe his dry throat. The truth of the man's words hurt his soft heart. He'd known that Enjolras was unhappy with his family but the severity of it had been lost on him. They had one more thing in common: Shitty family.

 

Enjolras gathered together everything for a wine sauce, a good sweet wine with lots of savory ingredients thrown in. He was quiet as the other went about it but he couldn't keep to himself for ever, it was against his very nature.

 

***

 

“Don't add that.”

 

Enjolras's hand stilled, the salt shaker tilted but unused. He looked over at the artist to find him biting his thumb nail, eyes nervously fixated on the small pot with the warming mixture of butter and wine. He'd already added the rosemary and sage and all the other spices that balanced out the natural sweetness and the man had said nothing.

 

“Why not?”

 

“You already salted the meat, didn't you?” Grantaire asked, voice still soft but sure.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then don't add that,” his pale fingers gestured at the sauce, “And don't reduce it all the way.”

 

Enjolras raised a brow at him, “I'm sorry, did I miss 'chef' on your resume?”

 

“That's lamb, isn't it? I could tell by the color,” Grantaire continued, fingers absently picking the label off his water as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, “Don't reduce it. Trust me. It'll taste better with that tang, especially with the wine you chose.”

 

Enjolras sat the salt aside, eyebrows up to his hairline. He'd never seen or heard anything about Grantaire being interested in cooking yet he sounded like he'd done it before. There was a certainty to his words that had him believing it. He stirred the sauce instead, lowering the heat to let it simmer. He had vegetables to steam anyway. A healthy dinner to recharge them both after the day.

 

“You want to tell me why you know so much?” he poured some water in a pan, turning the heat on high. Grantaire didn't answer until he'd finished adding the butter to it.

 

“I used to hang out in the kitchen while my mother cooked,” Grantaire set the water bottle on the counter, leaning against it, “She didn't want a house cook. She said it always tasted better if she'd made it herself. I was the only one allowed in there with her, my brothers and sister just got in the way.”

 

Grantaire suddenly looked cut open, raw in the way that came with saying something one had never said before. Something close to the heart, something potentially damaging.

 

“You've never talked about her before,” Enjolras kept his voice low, not wanting to push but wanting to know, “I'm sure she was a lovely woman.”

 

“She was,” he laughed weakly, no joy in the sound, “I think she's been the only one in this big lonely world who's ever truly loved me. I'm sure she did. She left me everything when she died, wrote my father and brothers out of the will completely. I'd never seen my father look so angry as when our lawyer read that bit out loud.”

 

“It must've been hard to lose her,” Enjolras could see the loss written like ink across the artist's expressive face and eyes, it plucked at his heart strings, “I saw some of your scars. Did you get those after she died?”

 

Grantaire's eyes shot up to his own.

 

“If she loved you half as much as you think she did, she wouldn't have stood for it.”

 

“What did you see?” Grantaire snapped defensively, posture guarded with his arms crossed over his chest. He'd never been this way before, at least not with Enjolras. This was behavior for Montparnasse and his crew, for the occasional bigot at the bar, for high spirited but illogical debates in class. Not for him, never for him.

 

“The start of one on your shoulder,” Enjolras couldn't bring himself to be completely honest. The scars on his thighs were sure to have less to do with his family, at least physically. Those were too personal to mention. If he were to say something about it the other would probably flee from the house and this fragile thing between them would become irreparable.

 

“One spring, mom went on vacation,” Grantaire started slowly, fingers clenching across his forearm until the skin dyed itself red and white from the pressure, “I was about twelve. My brothers chased me up a tree and threw some glass soda bottles at me. Remember how they used to be really heavy on the bottom? Like real thick glass?”

 

The blonde nodded, absently putting a lid over the vegetables to let them steam. Grantaire took up the wooden spoon and stirred the sauce, watching the raspberry colored paste curl over itself with each stroke. Like whipped topping.

 

“When they missed and the bottles broke, they started throwing the bottoms at me,” there was a strain to his voice, “One caught me dead in the shoulder. It cut me so deep the nanny took me to the hospital. When I got back my father told me it was my own fault, that if I had stood up for myself they wouldn't have had to hurt me so bad. It was a lesson, he said. When I told him it wasn't right to hit my brothers he called me a dandy and that I deserved any scars I got. I was sent to bed without supper.”

 

Enjolras heard a creak and looked down, his bone-white knuckles wrapped around the handle of the oven. The screws were creaking from the tight grip he had. When he let it go he noticed the new angle it leaned at, limp now. He'd nearly ripped it off. He looked up quickly, Grantaire's expression was of nonchalance but his hold on the wooden spoon was splinter-inducing.

 

Their hearts were beating in a unified, quick rhythm that made their breath audible.

 

“Your brother's a bastard and I can only assume the rest of them are,” Enjolras tried not to snap but his words were harsh even to his own ear.

 

“You should've seen my dad back in the day,” Grantaire scoffed.

 

Enjolras pulled the spoon from the artist's hand, letting it clatter to the counter and flick little creamy dots all over the surface. Grantaire gasped as his face was cupped, dark brows knitted as he stared up at the blonde's face. He was confused, afraid. Enjolras plead silently for an explanation, thumbs tenderly tracing the other man's cheekbones. They didn't need words to ask and agree.

 

“He would just smack me around a bit,” he bit down on his lower lip, pulling the skin taunt to reveal two white scars on either side of it that were invisible from a distance, “He has this really heavy ring that he got from a fraternity or something. He used to wear it all the time.”

 

“ 'Taire,” he ran his thumbs just under the artist's eyes. Grantaire looked like his heart was melting, dark lashes fluttering and cheeks warming up underneath his touch.

 

“It's okay, Apollo,” Grantaire assured him, smile strengthening, “That's why I ran away. I wasn't going to let the man who brought me into this world take me out of it.”

 

Enjolras became overwhelmed with himself. Gratitude, anger, an acute sadness that made his eyes well with tears that would never touch his cheeks. He'd never had a family member raise a hand to him let alone his father. He could see in his mind a young Grantaire in his room, cowering beneath his blankets, shoulders on fire from the stitched gashes, tears soaking into his pillow as he tried not to make a sound. His small, bloody mouth stinging as the saline touched the cut there from his father's reprimand. It hurt him more than he could describe.

 

“Grantaire,” he choked, “I'm so sorry.”

 

***

 

The hug took him by surprise. It was firm and Enjolras was warm, he smelled _so_ good. Grantaire inhaled deeply and soaked up everything about the moment. The strong arms around his waist, the slight rasp of stubble across his neck where the man's chin rested against it, the heat from the oven and the rustle of fabric between them as their bodies brushed.

 

Grantaire fingers trembled as his hands came up to hug his leader back. He let himself truly enjoy it, their first and probably last hug.

 

 _God, kill me now,_ he prayed silently, _Or freeze time. I beg you. I've never asked you for anything, I know I don't believe in you, but I'm pleading now. Just let me stay here in his arms. Give me this one thing._

 

Enjolras pulled away so fast he was worried he'd voiced his prayer and scared him.

 

“There's plates and silverware in that cabinet and drawer,” the blonde threw his chin toward the corner of the kitchen, “Set the table and I'll bring it out. It should be almost done.”

 

Grantaire took the out and hurriedly gathered what they'd need, retreating to the table. There was a sturdy table made of the same strong stuff the one at Les Amis was, only a bit smaller. Made more for four than eight. He pushed aside a small stack of thin law books and a thickly laminated map to set out everything. It was a silent ritual, Enjolras bringing out all the food in matching white dishes like a house wife. With an apron this could be domestic daydream material but the moment seemed too intimate to dirty up like that. They scooped and cut and settled portions with practiced movements, like they'd done this a dozen times instead of once.

 

Enjolras went back to the kitchen for drinks when the artist spotted it. An older piano, decorative, practically made to sit in a corner rather than used for music. It was pretty, pushed up next to a window that led out into the flower-vined alley. He wandered over and flipped up the cover, finding the keys a polished ivory and untouched. Like no one had played it before.

 

Grantaire danced his fingers across the keys in a caress before they pressed down. At first he just fiddled with a few notes before they became a melody.

 

“ _Come to me, the moon is closer than your eyes_ ,” Grantaire sang softly, the words coming out as slowly as the notes, “ _I can barely see...through the cracks...that shine out like scars..._ ”

 

The clink of bottles on a wooden surface broke him off. He jerked his hand away and looked up, Enjolras had his eyebrows raised up at him.

 

“Sorry,” he closed the lid over the ivory, sealing it away, “It's just such a pretty piece, it was crying out to be toyed with a bit. I didn't know you played.”

 

“I don't,” Enjolras sat down, “It was an heirloom of my late grandmother. She wrote it for me in her will. She said that I didn't appreciate music but one day I would find someone who did and they would fill my house with beautiful music.”

 

The blonde gave a small laugh, mind to the past, “She was a romantic.”

 

Grantaire went back to the table and sat down with his friend, the scratch of the chair echoing in the room.

 

“She was right, I'm really not as adamant about music as I should be,” Enjolras finally stated, fork twirling in his fingers as he mused, “It gets quiet in here without me rustling through all these books and documents. I suppose playing music is something normal people do when they have a guest.”

 

“Yes, but we're not exactly normal,” Grantaire ran his thumb across the lip of his beer, letting the moisture gather there on his skin before he took a small drink, “We've known each other long enough. I'm hardly a guest.”

 

The blonde frowned thoughtfully, “How long has it been? Two years?”

 

“About,” he made a humming noise around a bite of lamb dipped in the sauce, “I was _so_ right about the sauce.”

 

“Do you still keep up with your music?”

 

“I don't bum on the street much anymore, if that's what you mean,” Grantaire looked to the piano again, “Sometimes I wish I had more time for it but commissions pay more.”

 

“It's nice of Lesgle's aunt to put your stuff up in her gallery,” Enjolras kept his eyes on his plate when he realized how that sounded, “It deserves to be shown and it's hard to do here in the city.”

 

“I was lucky,” the thrill of Enjolras knowing about his art made his chest tight, “She has some of my better pieces up in Paris too, if you can believe that.”

 

“I can,” he took another bite, chewing thoughtfully, “It's a shame. You were pretty good with a guitar.”

 

“I still am.”

 

“Actually, it's what drew me to you,” Enjolras confessed, “It's what drew everyone to you. If it hadn't been for that guitar, I don't believe we ever would've spoken.”

 

Grantaire actually laughed, “Oh, I don't know about that. I'm hard to ignore.”

 

Enjolras dropped his head, hiding a grin, “Yes you are.”

 

*******

 

The day was cool, breezy, the sun made its occasional appearance from behind the fluffy mass of clouds that littered the sky. The perfect day to be out shopping or eating with friends, to play in the park, to announce the upcoming bill that would decide on same sex marriage in France herself.

 

Enjolras had chosen a large courtyard that opened up to the street, lined with little shops that saw plenty of customers. It was in a middle class part of town, perfect to get the message to the majority. His voice rang clear off the cobblestones, sending his words out like a bell to reach every corner of the courtyard. Combeferre and Courfeyrac played the perfect left and right hand, respectively, circling the fountain to pass out flyers and spread the message as efficiently and as passionately as they could.

 

They'd achieved moderate success but there was a distraction, a young man taking up their listeners. Despite his powerful statements of how this bill would affect not only their future but the future of their children and unborn grandchildren. Said young man was playing a guitar and singing, a worn leather case open in front of him in a silent invitation for money. He'd built a small crowd and with good reason, his voice was sweet. Not as strong as his own but it gave him a run for his money.

 

Enjolras jumped down from the fountain ledge, landing on the cobblestone with a clack. His friends came to his side, both frowning. For two completely different people they could be oddly similar, with Combeferre being the most grounded but Courfeyrac going leaps and bounds past him in passion.

 

“What are you thinking?” Combeferre asked, spying the determined set to their leader's brow.

 

“That we shouldn't have to compete with a panhandler,” Enjolras huffed, “Give me a moment.”

 

He ate up the distance with his long legs, coming up to the crowd just as it was dispersing. The man had concluded his song and was thanking the few people who lingered to say how great he'd been. Mostly girls with flushed cheeks and innocent smiles. They all but ran away after giving their compliments, giggling and clinging to each other. School girls who thought it was cool to crush on cute boys with dark stubble and well worn shoes. The man was handsome enough with dark curls peeking out from beneath a light grey beanie, a white skull and crossbones stitched on the side. He was dressed in color splotched clothes, traces of black paint clinging to his pale fingers. He was otherwise clean, and with a casual breeze he noted he smelled nice enough.

 

The man (a boy, maybe a year or two younger than him) looked up to reveal eyes the color of storm clouds. He smiled and it was blinding, teeth pearly white with kitten fangs a little more pronounced than usual. He had a pair of nice lips, not as full as his own but they were a soft pink that he found more tempting than he should.

 

“You need to go somewhere else,” Enjolras demanded as firmly as he could, “You're stealing our foot traffic and I insist you leave.”

 

“Well hello to you to,” the man chuckled, scooping the money out of his case and putting it in his outer shirt pocket, “Am I interfering that much?”

 

“You are.”

 

“Hm,” the man laid his guitar in the case but didn't close it, “You chose a good spot for your little _ra-ra_ over there. The people here are usually pretty open minded and generous with their time. And their money.”

 

“Yes, they're open-handed, now _leave_.”

 

“Whoa! There's no reason to get hostile, blondie,” the man held his hands up, palms out in surrender, “I'm sorted out on cash but you boys are a little too edgy for the square. If you can stop shooting sparks out of your eyes for a moment I think we can make a compromise.”

 

Enjolras made a visible effort to soften up his body language, fixing his features into a more neutral expression. The man made a face, standing up and examining him.

 

“Nevermind,” the ravenette shrugged, “You're prettier when you're all plucky and puffed up like a cat.”

 

Enjolras stuck his tongue to the roof of his mouth, biting back his first response, “You said something about a compromise?”

 

“I think I should sing for you guys,” the man offered bluntly, “Something soft to counterbalance how strong you come off. Round the edge a bit. I'm not much to look at but I usually draw a crowd. Not that you're having any trouble with that heavenly bellow you possess but I can help.”

 

“I think it's the penniless artist look you have going on.”

 

Enjolras was surprised he said it, the other men seemed to think so too.

 

“Sure,” the blonde snapped, covering up his slip, “Play something appropriate, don't get in the way, and if you start to overshadow us I'm going to kick you out.”

 

“You're going to kick me out of a public square?” the man asked with a tone of disbelief

 

His eyes narrowed, “Yes.”

 

“My name's Grantaire,” the ravenette chewed his bottom lip, ripening it, “If you care, that is.”

 

“I do. Mine's Enjolras.”

 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire seemed to savor the taste of the syllables, “I'll be over in a moment.”

 

Enjolras nodded curtly before turning, heading back toward his friends. The two men crowded in on him, both frowning and asking him what he was doing. He held up a hand to silence them.

 

“I asked him to leave and we've come to an agreement,” he informed them, “He'll play and draw a crowd, then we'll try a softer approach.”

 

Courfeyrac seemed surprised, “A _soft_ approach?”

 

“How very unlike you, E,” Combeferre noted, eyes flicking to the approaching ravenette, “Does it have something to do with the particular shape of that panhandler's hips?"

 

“For goodness sake, 'Ferre, get your mind out of the gutter and concentrate,” Enjolras chided lowly, “We work with what we have and he's been taking most of our audience. This is too important to ignore so we all have to make some sacrifices.”

 

He straightened his jacket and smoothed his hair down, bringing himself back together, “And for me it's my dignity.”

 

Grantaire set up on the edge of the fountain, laying his case open in front of him and putting his guitar in his lap. He gave a nod toward the blonde, getting one in return to start. He strummed a few chords thoughtfully, eventually creating a familiar American tune. He hummed to start but soon words began to pour from those gorgeous lips. His voice was soft at first but it gained momentum and volume as his confidence grew.

 

“ _Maybe there's a God above, but all I've ever learned from love...was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you,_ ” Grantaire sang with his soul, each word feeling like a squeeze to the heart, “ _It's not a cry you can hear at night, it's not somebody who has seen the light...it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah. Hallelujah...hallelujah..._ ”

 

He sounded beautiful, angelic, light, and a dozen other words that Enjolras couldn't even think of because his brain had melted down into a buzzy mess. It left him breathless in the best way. He couldn't believe how good he sounded up close, how the emotions played across his face as he let the words just pour out of him. It was a vulnerable moment and he was showing it to anyone who walked by, those who stopped couldn't help but stare the way he was. It sent a protective surge through him but he didn't know why.

 

The ravenette looked up when he realized he was being stared at, swallowing so hard that pale Adam's apple visibly bobbed, “No good?”

 

“No it's perfect,” he blurted out, then cleared his throat, “Keep going.”

 

It was five o' clock the next time Enjolras checked the time. The people slowed down as the evening started to set in. The courtyard was only busy in the noon hours. But he'd seen the expressions on peoples faces, the outrage when they'd heard about what the bill would do, and he knew he'd changed some minds. It was enough. Combeferre had to head off to work and Courfeyrac and taken the remaining flyers to class with him to use as aids, he'd forgotten to do his speech and he'd decided on the fly to do it on the upcoming bill. That left the protester with the stranger, the one gathering up the change in his guitar case and slipping the coins into his pockets. The last remaining flyer danced in his fingers as he played with it, struggling with an idea he'd come up with in the middle of one of Grantaire's songs.

 

“Those were my friends, Combeferre and Courfeyrac,” Enjolras explained, “We've started a group. We don't quite have a name yet. We're just now getting our footing and our connections could improve but it's a start. There's just one more of us.”

 

“What do you do?” Grantaire asked, laying his guitar in his case before standing up.

 

Enjolras was eager to explain, “We fight for the equal rights of the people. Gay and otherwise.”

 

“A common cause,” the panhandler scoffed, “Anything more interesting?”

 

He tried not to let his eye twitch the way Marius teased him about, “We spread awareness of overstuffed and harmful bills that the general public are normally unaware of.”

 

“Snore.”

 

The flyer crinkled under his tight grasp, “We set up rallies-”

 

“Oh, that's different.”

 

“-and use our positions at the university to influence future voters. There' the volunteer work-”

 

“Like saving kittens from trees?”

 

“-that ranges from going out to the coast from that last oil spill to building homes. We provide tents, blankets, food, and other necessities to the homeless. There's a hundred thousand of them living on the streets of France.”

 

“There's more than a hundred million world wide. It's a tragedy but not a problem you can fix.”

 

“We do what we can with what we have and I'll not apologize for it!” Enjolras immediately smacked his jaw shut. He'd never raised his voice at a stranger like this before but something about the boy's flippant attitude got under his skin like an itch, a persistent one. He looked so casually uncaring. He wanted to force the man to give a damn about anything he was saying. It was a cross between wanting to punch him in the face and presenting him with adequate literature to help change his mind.

 

“Don't go all avenging, self-righteous angel on me,” Grantaire tisked at his expression, “Don't get me wrong, it's really something. That look could bring giants to their knees and that's _all_ _kinds_ of sexy, but it's not going to intimidate me into agreeing with you. You're not the first man to try it but you're damn sure the best looking.”

 

If this was one of those cartoons that Marius had insisted on watching when they were younger his hair would be standing on end, bristled and flaming eyed. What a brat! What a complete and utter heathen! They barely knew one another's names and Grantaire was painfully obvious in his flirting, like it was a common occurrence. The little street urchin, of course it was. He probably earned his living off that pretty smile and those artistic words.

 

“Forget it!” Enjolras bit out, already thinking about heading back toward his car, “It's no use having an extra body if it doesn't agree with us.”

 

Grantaire shouldered off his satchel, the blonde noted it had a pin in it with his university's logo printed on it (they went to the same school, strange), “Who says I don't agree with you?”

 

“ _You_ just did.”

 

Grantaire grinned, exposing those kitten fangs again, “And _you_ have to get tired of being insufferably right all the time!”

 

He raised his chin defiantly, “I don't.”

 

Grantaire laughed laughed, an honest sound despite his teasing. The freedom fighter wasn't sure whether to be offended or not. It didn't sound malicious but it was something more than friendly, _what_ he wasn't sure. Maybe more flirting, maybe deliberate mocking, he didn't know.

 

“You've got some serious fire there, Enjolras. In fact,” Grantaire squatted down and framed his thumb and forefingers like a lense, framing the older boy, “With the sun behind you like that, you kind of look like...”

 

Enjolras fidgeted as the panhandler examined him through the border of his fingers. He felt like he was on display, laid bare under the scrutiny of those stormy eyes. His mind supplied _unnerving_ but he refused to let the boy invoke such a thing in him.

 

“Like what?”

 

Grantaire started to dig around in his bag, searching for something. It was full of pens, charcoals, loose paper, and school books. He finally pulled out a thick syllabus and flipped through it, obviously looking for something in particular. He made a sound before flipping it around, showing the blonde a certain page. There were two paintings printed upon the paper, Greek from the looks of it. There was one common character in both of them, a man. Broad shoulders, bare fleshed, golden hair.

 

“And who's that?”

 

“I figured a cultured guy like you would recognize it,” Grantaire pulled it back, looking down as if to double check, “It's Apollo.”

 

Enjolras rolled his eyes. He'd had enough. He turned and started toward the mouth of the courtyard, ready to leave. Grantaire chased after him until he could trail in his footsteps, abandoning his guitar.

 

“Aren't you going to tell me where and when to meet up with you and your band of merry men?” the artist needled.

 

Enjolras ran his tongue over the front of his teeth, struggling with his choice of words, “You're obviously not taking this seriously.”

 

“Who says I'm not?” Grantaire jumped in front of him, cutting him with with a growing grin.

 

Enjolras tried to glare him down but the man didn't even fidget.

 

“I've got all day.”

 

“I believe that,” Enjolras made an indignant snort, “Panhandling is hardly a full time job.”

 

“I'm a part time artist as well. I even dabble in some dance,” the ravenette confessed, “That should please you.”

 

Golden brows knit together, “Why should it?”

 

“Are not all gods, demi or otherwise, appeased by dance and paint?” the man purred out the words, sending goosebumps across Enjolras's arms. He tried to shake off the tingles and went to pass him instead, getting blocked again by a side-step.

 

“You're insufferable,” Enjolras accused with an edge of irritation.

 

“And _you're_ the most interesting person I've ever met,” Grantaire rejoiced, eyes dancing over him like he'd found something worthy of worship. Of value. It made Enjolras tight-chested and light headed, the kind of high you only got from killing brain cells. He tried to step away again but the artist practically leapt in front of him, effectively stopping him yet again.

 

“Your flyers are crap,” Grantaire threw out bluntly, making his point the best way he knew how, “It's obvious you don't have an artistic man in the bunch. Let me help.”

 

Enjolras tried to get around him again but the man cut him off even closer this time, the tips of their shoes scuffing.

 

“Why should I tolerate this?” the blonde demanded hotly, “You're positively obnoxious.”

 

“I'm _useful_ ,” Grantaire corrected him, as sharp as a whip, “And you approached me first, Apollo, don't forget that. I wasn't the one who decided our destinies should meet.”

 

Enjolras found himself genuinely surprised, “You believe in destiny?”

 

“If we're going to be friends-”

 

“I said no such thing.”

 

“ _If_ we're going to be friends,” Grantaire emphasized, speaking over him, “Then there is something you should know about me. I take great care not to believe in anything.”

 

Brilliant white teeth came to light in something closer to a smile than his usual feline grin, “But I'm starting to.”

 

*******

 

They laughed behind the privacy of their hands as they remembered how they used to be. How nothing had really changed. Grantaire was still the only one in the entirety of the ABC that got snapped at and scolded by their leader, the only one he'd ever had to raise a voice to. It was only the ravenette who loosened the lid on his tightly kept control.

 

“You were such a little brat,” Enjolras danced his fingers over the line of his beer before he took a drink, “I couldn't believe what I was doing talking to a street urchin like you. Courfeyrac later told me he believed you to be a pickpocket.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

Enjolras nodded quickly, getting another string of chuckles out of the artist. They helped themselves to seconds as the laughter quieted down, silverware clinking off plates in place of music. The blonde downed the last of his beer and rose to go to the kitchen, retrieving two more and popping off their lids. He was thanked. He took a drink and before the cool taste had left his mouth he found the courage to speak up.

 

“Why do you call me Apollo?”

 

Grantaire's hands stilled, eyed rounding out in surprise for just a moment before he could shake it off. The younger man shrugged and went back to his food, gaze still downcast.

 

“I told you.”

 

“I know you just had that class and the paintings were fresh in your mind,” Enjolras elaborated, “But I would like to know the real reason.”

 

Grantaire carefully set down his fork, “Do you know much about him?”

 

“Honestly, no.”

 

Grantaire's lips curled up in a smile, “He is portrayed as a _kouros_ , a smooth skinned youth. He's most well known for being the god of the sun and light, his hair almost always reflects that in artistic renderings. And when you spoke so strongly you reminded me of his other dominion as an oracular god. The Oracle of Delphi, Pythia, called upon him to give her true vision of the future and what it held.”

 

The other finally lifted his eyes, Enjolras lost his held breath, “Every time you speak you remind me of him. In every painting you would find him powerful, in control, above anything else portrayed. Back then you would've probably been appointed his High Priest or mistaken for his offspring.”

 

Grantaire gave a mirthful laugh, breaking the tension, “You are powerful, yes, but it's your hair that would've gotten you snatched off the streets and shoved into his temple. Someone would've seen the way it catches the light and they would've have been able to help themselves. Their temples aren't like the churches we have now. They wanted the most beautiful of priests and priestesses to share their bodies with the gods. Pagans were very open that way.”

 

Still wide eyed at the explanation, Enjolras lost control of his words.

 

“You think I'm beautiful?”

 

The artist shifted uncomfortably in his chair, finger coming up to drum off the table, “We all do, E, don't look so surprised.”

 

“But you're the only one who calls me that,” he wet his lips, “Beautiful or otherwise.”

 

“Oh I don't believe that,” Grantaire suddenly frowned at him, looking pained, “Don't ask me to stop because I won't.”

 

“No, I'm not asking you to stop,” he shook his head and could feel the aforementioned locks bouncing across his ears and forehead, “Finish up. You can help with the dishes.”

 

They did so in companionable silence, occasionally brushing shoulders or wet fingers as dishes were washed and passed and dried. All too soon they had no reason to linger.

 

“You don't have to drive me,” Grantaire gave him his out, “I can skateboard home. It's not that far.”

 

“You live ten blocks away,” the blonde deadpanned, “I won't have it. Now get your shoes on. I wish you'd brought a coat.”

 

Enjolras tugged on his own, then reached over and grabbed a plain tan one off the rack, “Here. It looks awful with your coloring but it'll do.”

 

Grantaire was too busy inhaling lungfuls of _Enjolras_ to point out that only the other could say something clashed with his skin tone and not sound poncy.

 

*****

 

Grantaire tried to be subtle but it was hard when the object of his affection was only a shift stick away. For the entire ride he leaned against the door with the sleeve to his nose, trying to casually watch the scenery go by while his mind pulsed with _cinnamon Enjolras need kiss lick touch please God let the scent stay so I can sleep with it and pretend it's him_.

 

He hadn't prayed to the false deity this much since he was a kid.

 

The car stopped on the street in front of his building, just like last time. Something was different now. The interaction didn't feel as stilted or awkward. It was warm and reluctantly ending, maybe on both sides. He opened the door and cleared his throat, ready to bid him a good night. He was beat to it.

 

“You can wear all the ridiculous hats you want, you still need a haircut.”

 

Grantaire felt himself flush from collarbone to ear tip, face burning hot to the touch. He had wanted to keep his unruly curls kind of a secret these past few months. It was getting long, more of a mop than a hairstyle. He laid his hand over his hat self-consciously, pressing down.

 

“I'll, uh, get right on that.”

 

“Don't, it suits you,” the blonde gave a real smile that melted Grantaire's heart, teeth showing and everything, “Besides, those hats make you look like a girl.”

 

Grantaire hurriedly ripped the beanie off, shaking his head to free his hair a bit.

 

Enjolras laughed quietly, “Much better.”

 

“I don't need to see tomorrow, Apollo, for I believe the sun just rose in front of me,” Grantaire waxed, grinning in the face of that oh-so-rare smile. Blonde brows drew together like he was confused but the smile lingered, fading slow like a sunset.

 

“Good morning to you, O' Devoted One,” Grantaire got out, clutching his skateboard and bag as he made a little bow, “I promise to be bright-eyed and bushy tailed early tomorrow.”

 

He took a moment to enjoy his friend's stunned expression before he closed the door, all but skipping across the sidewalk and up the steps.

 

* * *

 

**Sorry for the delay. Feedback is much appreciated. Remember to check over at[my Tumblr](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/) for photosets and just my general stash of awesome. Plus you can see what Grantaire's apartment looks like, what the paintings are from thsi chapter, and other little stuff.**


	9. The Sit-In

True to his word, Grantaire rose ecspecially early the next morning. Waking was slow, the other man's jacket sleeve practically wrapped around his face. The smell of Enjolras hadn't faded. Instead it clung to his pillow and in his hair. He spent long minutes simply breathing and snuggling, wishing his fingers were wrapped in blonde tresses instead of tan fabric.

 

It was a rush to be up with the fresh sun, showering and scrubbing and brushing himself until he gleamed. He yanked on his favorite clothes but hesitated at his chosen hat. He fingered the warm material for a few moments, chasing the lines of its stitching. With one quick look at the clock he made a decision, tossing it on the table in favor of snagging up his bag. No drinks, no paint, no charcoal stains.

 

Grantaire felt like he was flying all the way to the coffee shop.

 

Fantine was surprised to see him but she was more than welcoming. He helped her bake a fresh batch of muffins with practiced ease but the coffee was a bit trickier. He brewed several cups himself with her instructions echoing behind him, only messing up twice. It was impressive for his usual track record. He slipped each cup in its own holder before laying the two containers on top of each other, enough for everyone. He tested its weight and balance and found it suitable to carry with one palm. Muffins in the other, he headed upstairs. A cup for each chair, the plate in the middle, it was all set in minutes. Pride swelled unchecked within his chest, eyes bright with it.

 

Maybe he wasn't as much of a fuck-up as he thought he was.

 

He was just raising his own cup to his lips when Enjolras came in. The older man was suitably surprised, the papers he'd been shuffling in his hands stilling.

 

“You really are here early,” he could forgive the surprise.

 

“As promised!” Grantaire declared, half-sitting on the table.

 

Cool blue eyes drifted over the artist's form, “Not a drop of paint on you.”

 

“And not a drop of booze in me, only the good stuff,” Grantaire took a long drink of his coffee, savoring the brief rush of caffeine, “If you'll take note: I didn't touch a cigarette this morning, which was sorely tempting. My body is pure for today's agenda.”

 

Enjolras gave a closed lip smile, walking over to the table, “Would you keep this good behavior up until tomorrow?”

 

He put the coffee down thoughtfully, “What's tomorrow?”

 

“The sit-in for the college,” Enjolras reminded gently, “You'll need your strength.”

 

“Will I?”

 

Courfeyrac appeared at the door, face lighting up when he spotted the steaming muffins, “Excellent!”

 

The fellow ravenette dove for the plate but Grantaire moved it out of the way at the last second, frowning at him, “Why will I need my strength for tomorrow?”

  
“They'll be dragging us out dead-weight style if we're lucky,” he got a muffin for his answer, moaning at the first bite, “It's a good portion of the student body and we've drummed up a few dozen volunteers. You'll take some good pictures, won't you 'Taire?”

 

The last bit was said through a much-too-big bite of muffin.

 

“Of course.”

 

“Good,” Enjolras nodded firmly, laying the paperwork aside to wrap his hand around his own coffee, “It's Sunday, most of us have work or family things, so this meeting will be short. 'Feyrac, get the list ready. I want to try and get a sign and head count.”

 

Combeferre came in next, followed by a sleepy set of best friends. Joly and Lesgle were arm in arm, trying to support each other. They looked hungover and they drank their coffee like it was nectar, grateful for the caffeine.

 

“Look at the state of you,” Enjolras scolded, the two slumped shoulder-to-shoulder in their chairs, “If Grantaire can show up sober and eager than I expect nothing less from the two of you. For goodness sake.”

“It's the wine,” Lesgle griped, fingers fluttering by his temple, “Goes striaght to my brain.”

 

“Obviously,” it was a hiss of contempt from the blonde's full lips.

 

“Did Cosette say yes?” Combeferre asked, helping himself to a few deep pulls of coffee.

 

“She did,” Enjolras spoke up as Bahorel bounced in, looking like he'd rolled out of someone's bed, “As you all know, Cosette is working at Le Monde. She's agreed to sweet talk the head editor into printing whatever we can feed her. If we're lucky we'll get a picture that's too juicy to pass up. We still need to finalize a plan to get copies of any picture we get to the rest of the papers. Let's cast our net wide.”

 

Enjolras held up a page to the light, squinting at the addresses of all the city's papers, “We may need to dust off some bikes.”

 

*****

 

The sit in went off as planned. Only better.

 

They raved and preached and shouted their outrage all the way to the doors. They cut themselves off from the media except for the Twitter and Facebook page of the university. Turns out the person who controlled the updates was gay and _very_ unhappy with the new university policy. Though it was important to get their message out it was even more important to get it correct. Only minutes after being locked up inside, Enjolras had gone around with a bucket and collected every phone and media device. It was best to have one, unified voice and taking them prevented anyone from mucking it up.

 

Under Enjolras's hard gaze the other protesters had handed them over without a fight.

 

They lasted five hours and received thousands of outraged replies to the university's website. Most of their throats were sore from yelling but the majority of them were grinning when the shout came through the door that the police were going to start busting down the doors if they didn't come in. Enjolras called that this was their time, something along the lines of _we will not budge_ and _do not let them see you flinch_. It was very inspiring but Grantaire didn't hear most of it, too busy hiding their phones in the desk of one of the cooperating staff members (a teacher that hadn't wanted to risk their job but had given them the keys to get in the building). They'd be safe there.

 

By the time Grantaire returned the police had already broken the door off its hinges and rushed in, seizing his fellow protesters off the ground by their armpits and the crooks of their arms. Everyone seemed to hold to their dead weight, some crying out as their limbs were jolted against desks and doorways. The police were marked by their black hats and they swarmed through the building, grabbing one after another with practiced efficiency. Handcuffs were slapped on almost every wrist. They weren't fucking around. Most of his friends were already getting dragged out of the room.

 

An officer came for him and he dropped to the floor, looking the man dead in the eyes as cuffs were slapped across his skin.

 

“Come on, kid,” the man grunted, picking him up beneath his arms and dragging him toward the front door, “Don't give me any trouble now. I don't want to hurt you.”

 

Grantaire believed him. These men were just doing his job and he couldn't hold a grudge for a man trying to earn his wages. No matter what Enjolras said, he believed the police force to be a good thing. Not nearly corrupt enough for the cynic to despise them.

 

He was lugged halfway to the door when he spotted Enjolras, seated squarely in front of the main desk. One of the police, a burly guy in his prime, was trying to pick him up. The blonde wasn't budging and soon the other man grunted beneath his weight, dropping him back to the floor.

 

“Get up!” the policeman growled out, lashing out and landing a solid kick to the blonde's stomach. The breath whooshed out of him and Enjolras curled up over his stomach, the next one hitting his ribs. Grantaire could hear a growl rumble out of his throat, his leader knocked over on his side to sprawl across the floor. He braced his feet on the ground and lunged, breaking out of his surprised guard's hands. Enjolras shook his head sharply and he froze, an obedient lieutenant to his captain. He was stunned as he watched the other man bite down on his own lip until crimson bubbled up around the ivory of his teeth, blue eyes staring at him pointedly.

 

The police officer was standing over Enjolras, hands clenched into fists at his sides. With the protester spread across the ground like that, bloody mouthed, prone, handcuffed – oh!

 

Grantaire pulled his camera out of his hoodie pocket, snapping two quick pictures just as the blonde looked up almost _pleadingly_ at the officer. Perfect. He quickly tucked it away again before he was grabbed, his legs immedietely giving out beneath him in a dead drop. To his credit, the policeman just grumbled about stupid college kids before attempting to drag him out of the building once more.

 

He closed his eyes. He could still hear the thud of a boot connecting with soft flesh.

 

*****

 

As promised, Eponine bailed them all out within a few hours. She was surprisingly accompanied by a sheepish Marius (they were too happy about their success to care that he'd skipped out). They were a little tired and hungry but no worse for wear. Joly diagnosed Enjolras with lightly bruised ribs and Courfeyrac with a busted lip, thought the latter deserved it for mouthing off the way he had. They rode in separate cars and reconviened at Lesgle's house, his parents gone for the week on some sort of retreat. They gathered in the living room, bleeding into the connected kitchen in search of nurishment. Joly clucked on about how they should've eaten a heartier breakfast, that keeping people locked up for more than five hours without giving them a meal was criminal in itself.

 

Enjolras was perched on the arm of a chair with an ice pack pressed to his stomach, grinning despite the aching in his ribs. Grantaire was busy on Lesgle's laptop, editing the pictures he'd taken for the maximum effect. His fingers were quick across the keys, eyes dancing all over the image in search of different levels of contrast. Bahorel was making (wrong) suggestions over his shoulder until Enjolras barked at him to leave the artist to his work. Grantaire soon decided they were perfect and started to print them off on good, sleek stock paper. Their leader got up and walked over, plucking them out of the printer once they were dry enough to touch. His ice pack was laid aside to get a better look at the images.

 

“This is it,” Enjolras declared, stopping at the image of him laying at the feet of that officer, “The perfect image of oppression. It was a little underhanded of me but since when did those in higher power play fair?”

 

The pictures were passed around, murmurs of agreement following each exchange.

 

Enjolras hooked the self-proclaimed cynic around the neck, dragging him over until they stood shoulder to shoulder. He ripped off his beanie and Grantaire released a squawk of protest, but he quieted down when a kiss was dropped in his hair.

 

“Beautiful, R, absolutely beautiful work,” Enjolras murmured, a hot scarlett working itself up the younger man's neck at the praise. The hat dropped to the floor unnoticed. It was the first time the orator had used that particular nickname, the one so common among their friends, and it sent more than a tiny rush of adrenaline through him. Progress.

 

Enjolras looked to his freckled friend, “Can Cosette get them in tomorrow morning?”

 

“Easy,” Marius promised quickly, pulling out his cellphone, “I should call her now. I left rather quickly. I'll run the pictures over as soon as I'm done.”

 

“Good,” Enjolras threw his chin at the computer, “Courfeyrac? I want a dozen of each.”

 

Grantaire wanted to point out that he could easily do it but he was too busy soaking up the warmth of the arm stilled wrapped around his shoulders and neck. Long fingers threaded threw his hair and cupped the back of his head, tilting his head up so they were eye-to-eye. Enjolras gentle knocked their foreheads together, an almost too-intimate gesture. His lower lip was swollen and there was a small nick on his full lip now, but he was still beautiful.

 

“You did so well,” Enjolras adulated.

 

Grantaire shamelessly preened, a silly grin twisting his lips.

 

“I say this calls for a celebration!” Bahorel whipped a dark bottle of liquor out from a kitchen cabinet, setting it on the counter, “Give me some ice and tea and I'll make some real party juice.”

 

There were some shouts of agreement. Joly and Eponine hopped up on the stools beside the counter. Lesgle joined them after giving Grantaire a long, hard look. The artist could feel the start of an ache in his gut, mouth drying out as he watched his friend pour out glasses of sweet amber. The clink of ice, the slosh of sweet tea being added. It was a familiar barage of sounds and it stirred his stomach up like a hungry man smelling food.

 

Enjolras wasn't stupid, he could see the naked hunger on the artist's face as he gazed toward the counter. He let him go and snatched up his ice pack, heading toward the couch. Combeferre joined their leader, bringing his tablet and pulling up the university website to show all the responses they'd received. Courfeyrac took his other side, a drink in his hand but his eyes clear. The room was so much cooler without his Apollo's warmth upon him, like the sun was hidden behind a cloud.

 

Jehan grabbed him, jolting him out of his poetic musing. His arm replaced Enjolras's, steering him toward the kitchen.

 

“We still haven't settled who can take more shots in a row,” Jehan laughed, squeezing his shoulder, “No watering them down with anything. I swear you cheated last time!”

 

Grantaire could hear the three on the couch start talking about how best to proceed now that the protest was over. He saw his leader's face pinch up and he just _knew_ the man was a moment away from stating that they continue with the cause until their demands were met. Grantaire couldn't bear it in silence. He ripped away from Jehan and headed to the couch on quick feet, sliding onto the coffee table in front of them and claiming it as a seat.

 

“I think we should move on,” Grantaire stated bluntly, “We've devoted our time and resources to this campus and they're grateful. Really they are. But now they know what to do. You saw how quick they caught on. You've shown them that they can fight peacefully and isn't that what we're all about? Teaching people how to fight back?”

 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac nodded in unison, glancing at their increasingly surprised leader.

 

“I say we move on to the next cause and let them keep the fire burning themselves. Teaching a man to fish and all that, right?”

 

The three were reasonably stunned.

 

Grantaire raised his eyebrows pointedly, “Well?”

 

“Yes,” Enjolras sounded a little breathless but he soon got his voice back, “Yes, I believe you're right.”

 

“I think that one is a little warm,” Grantaire leaned forward and eased the ice pack from the blonde's unresisting fingeres, a bold move that had their digits intermingling for a few hot seconds, “I'll fetch another one.”

 

Grantaire got up and headed to the kitchen, dodging his friends as they told exaggerated personal accounts of what had gone down at the protest. Mostly Bahorel, but he was just a natural storyteller and no one could blame him for it.

 

“And he took a swing at me-”

 

“He didn't!”

 

“He _did_!”

 

Grantaire managed to squeeze in front of the fridge, opening up the freezer and smiling into it. The little touch of their fingers had given him the usual jitters. And the way he'd grabbed his neck, the light tug at his hair – he shivered again just thinking about it. It was more than he could have ever asked for. He swallowed to cover the dryness on his tongue. He wanted a drink so badly after the day they'd had. He hadn't had a drop since the beers at Enjolras's apartment and that seemed like so long ago when it was only the other day. The chill of the freezer seemed to stiffen up his trembling digits. He took a few long, icy breaths to stifle the urges. He snagged a new ice pack and four bottles of water from the fridge, feeling better.

 

He turned around and nearly ran into Jehan. He was holding out a drink, cheeks already ruddy from the shots.

 

“Not tonight, _chérie_ ,” Grantaire moved around him gracefully, their shoulders brushing, “I'm just not as thirsty as usual.”

 

Leaving the blodne behind, Grantaire went back over to the coffee table and took his spot. Courfeyrac rejoined as well, only now with a fresh stack of pictures and half a glass gone. The printer was still spitting out glossy images but the first round was done. They were talking about some situation in Egypt at the moment. He passed out the bottles, Courfeyrac poured some of his into his drink.

 

“And they just elected him last year,” Combeferre huffed sympathetically, “Their first democratically elected president and then all _this_ happens.”

 

“What's going on in Egypt?” Grantaire inquired, twisting off the cap.

 

“You don't know?” their guide looked like he couldn't believe it.

 

“No cable.”

Enjolras took up the task of explaining to him the situation in the Middle East. About the Brotherhood leader being arrested, about the upheavel of the people, the impeachment of their president, their revolt. It was a heady mixture of tragic and inspirational, at least in the way Enjolras told it, and the artist found himself only able to measure time by the amount of water left in his bottle.

 

Eventually Jehan found his way over to them, three and a half drinks in. He settled on the coffee table with Grantaire, pushing up against his side and lacing their arms. The poor boy was a lightweight so he forgave him as his hands wandered, fingers starting to curl in the strands of his hair at the base of his neck. He started murmuring in his ear about how it would be so much more comfortable on a couch of their own, just little things to steal his attention.

 

Jehan obviously underestimated the ravenette's investment in their leader.

 

Grantaire politely dropped a kiss on his cheek, eyes barely leaving Enjolras as he spoke, “Be quiet for me, will you? We're talking.”

 

Jehan pouted, nuzzling into the artist's ear. When he realized that Enjolras's adament rambling was stealing all the attention he stopped and took a long drink, nearly draining it. Grantaire tisked and plucked the glass from his lips and fingers, effectively taking it from him and putting it further down the table.

 

“That is quite enough for you, our little romantic boy,” Grantaire scolded, putting a hand on the blonde's chest as he tried to grab for it.

 

“Come on, R, give it back,” Jehan protested softly, half climbing onto the aritst.

 

“ _Stop_ or go somewhere else!” Grantaire snapped, a hand grazing his crotch.

 

“You're being so cruel,” Jehan whined, eyes lightng up before he ducked his head down and started laying soft little kisses across his friend's pale neck. Grantaire colored up and bristled at the touch, glancing at Enjolras in time to see their leader's eyes go steely.

 

“Lesgle!” Enjolras barked suddenly, “Come get this boy and put him to bed or send him home!”

 

Lesgle jumped off his stool and hurried to obey.

 

“The excitement's gone to his head,” Grantaire peeled the dark blonde boy off him and handed him off to Lesgle, “Mind his poor head, he's drunk too deeply too quickly.”

 

“ 'Taire!” Jehan begged, hands grazing off his sleeve as he was pulled away.

 

Grantaire put a finger to his lips, shushing him gently, “I'll see you in the morning, sweetheart, alright?”

 

“Come on, kid,” Lesgle grunted, half dragging him toward the hallway, “I've got a guest room with your name on it.”

 

The artist turned back to Enjolras, “You were saying?”

 

The blonde's sore lips were pursed until they were white, “Don't you wish to accompany him to bed?”

 

“I'm fine,” Grantaire waved him off, “I'm wide awake.”

 

An eyebrow rose in his direction, “Won't he miss you?”

 

Grantaire could feel tension crawling up his spine and through his arms, seizing up his neck. He knew that tone, that casual accusation. It was Enjolras's way of digging under someone's skin. He was trying to call out some kind of secret affair he thought the two of them were carrying on.

 

“You know Jehan and I are just good friends,” Grantaire pointed out swiftly, “We've always been like that. Not that it's any of your business but we've never lain together for more than rest. Despite what some others might think.”

 

Combeferre was the one to look guilty now, he nodded toward the retreating figures, “Tell _him_ that.”

 

“Drinks makes you friendly, 'Ferre, don't judge him too hard,” Grantaire polished off his water, “Please, Apollo, let's forget the poor kid and tell me more.”

 

As their conversation continued, they missed the sharp eyes of Eponine and Marius.

 

* * *

**Sorry for the short chapter, the next one will be short as well. Suggestions are more than welcome.**

 

 

 


	10. The Struggle of Two Not-So-Starcrossed Lovers

Three days later, Marius let himself into Enjolras's apartment. The blonde hadn't been avoiding the others so much as he had been going straight from work to home, working on his newest project. He found his oldest friend pacing in front of his cork board with a red pen tucked behind his ear, a little dark under the eyes and rumpled. From the dark stain in his abandoned coffee mug he could tell it had been filled multiple times, probably two pots worth. He could see the way the orator's fingers shook as he flipped open a notebook and started to write down something rather furiously.

 

Enjolras pulled back his hand, flexing it around his pen to ease the trembling before continuing.

 

“Enj?”

 

Enjolras looked up, alarmed, “How did you get in here?”

 

“I have a key.”

 

“I'm sorry, of course,” the blonde visibly calmed, returning to his notes, “You just startled me. I wasn't paying attention. I've been busy.”

 

“You haven't returned my calls,” Marius kicked off his shoes and set his pack down on a chair, “Your right and left have the same complaint. I've only known you to go off the grid when you have something on your mind.”

 

“Yes, this new project,” Enjolras argued, turning back to the board and tacking up a list titled _To Be Involved_ , “The sit-in was just the other day, I don't know why they're so worried.”

 

“Three days, you mean.”

 

The older man frowned, turning to look at him properly, “What day is it?”

 

“Sunday. We have class tomorrow.”

 

“Sunday,” he tasted the word slowly, “Okay, I've lost some time. But there's a riot brewing in Paris and I've been getting new information pumped from my sources every day.”

 

“So what? You'll neglect your health while you prepare?” Marius gave a mirthless laugh, “Shall you build the barricades yourself as well?”

 

“The city is waiting with bated breath. I just want to be ready. If we can't predict how many people and how severe the police force will be then how the hell can we protect ourselves? When – not if, _when_ – the riots happen we must be prepared or the whole thing could collapse in a violent mess. We talked about this two months ago, I don't know why you're so surprised.”

 

“You're being dramatic.”

 

“Mmm,” Enjolras went to the kitchen and started on a new batch of coffee, hands moving with practiced ease, “I've never had any complaints in the past when my plans have gone off without a hitch.”

 

“I think this is more than the upcoming collapse of our welfare state.”

 

“It's not just the welfare issue. It's a hundred other things. Not limited to the ruffled minority groups within France herself that live in those proclaimed 'urban-sensitive' zones. They are as unhappy as their sister nations. Egypt and Brazil are in hostile situations. Don't you think that our oh-so-welcome foreigners will have something to say about France's reluctance to help Egypt when they have clearly called out for trade support? No.”

 

Marius walked over, bracing his palms on the table to look at the spread of papers and names and numbers, “Grantaire.”

 

The pot of coffee clacked sharply as Enjolras pulled it out and poured himself a cup, dark liquid threatening to spill over the side, “What are you getting at?”

 

“You can play unattached leader with me but I don't believe you,” Marius rolled his eyes, “You don't scare me when you're sleep deprived.”

 

“Pity,” Enjolras slowly walked back to the table, mug warm between his palms. He took a slow drink, savoring the burst of flavor across his stale tongue. He could still feel Marius's eyes burning through him but he couldn't meet his gaze, not yet.

 

“You're my best friend. I've seen every expression there is to make on your face and three days ago I saw something I haven't seen in a long time.”

 

“And what, pray tell, did you read upon my face?”

 

“ _Jealousy_ , you poetic bastard.”

 

“Jealousy?” Enjolras set his mug aside in favor of straightening up some of his contact sheets, “Hardly.”

 

“Don't be such an ass,” Marius cheekbones became more pronounced in his frustration, jaw clenching briefly, “You know what I'm talking about. Grantaire and Jehan.”

 

“Now it's Grantaire _and_ Jehan? Honestly, Marius, how do you have the time to observe all these-”

 

Marius slammed his hand down on the table, the blonde stopped talking.

 

“ _Stop_ treating me like one of your ABC boys,” Marius demanded with all the authority of someone who'd dealt with this brand of stubbornness most of their life, “You didn't often favor toys but when you did you never let anyone touch them. Remember how our nanny tried to pry that red corvette toy out of your hands before bed every night?”

 

“It was mine.”

 

“You _bit_ her!”

 

A ghost of a smile came over the handsome face.

 

“My point is: Jehan kissed Grantaire that night,” Marius continued unphased, “On the neck, yes, but still. They were intimate, Grantaire didn't push him away, and you lit up so fast I was surprised the sofa didn't catch on fire.”

 

Enjolras still wasn't looking at him, a clear sign that he was uncomfortably close to the truth.

 

“A few months ago you wouldn't have given any credit to a word he said, and now you're inviting him over to your house,” the younger man explained, scowling at the coffee cup his friend hid behind, “You used to think him a useless drunk. You once said the best part of him was Eponine. You don't like his major, his decisions, his promiscuity, or his blatant disregard for what you think is important.”

 

“I said all those things in anger, usually just after one of his provocations,” Enjolras countered smoothly, “Everyone knows how he winds me up. I end up saying horrible things that I regret a moment later. You know better than to take anything like that without a grain of salt.”

 

“So, what, you're taking back everything you said?”

 

“He's not as... _unpleasant_ as I originally thought,” the blonde mused, lips grazing the lip of his mug as he spoke, “He cares more than he lets on.”

 

“You're admitting you're wrong.”

 

Enjolras sighed sharply, “Would you-”

 

“You _are_.”

 

He glanced up, Marius looked incredulous, “You can't tell me he's not worth my time.”

 

“But your jealousy?”

 

“I wasn't _jealous_. For God's sake, Marius.”

 

“For God's sake, _what_?” Marius didn't mean to shout but he was getting a bit fed up, “For someone who's apparently just a new friend you sure have been giving him a lot of your attention. Even before, you would let him steal you for a dance at our parties or would let him show up late to the meetings.”

 

“Everyone shows up late.”

 

“Anyone who shows up late that isn't Grantaire gets sent back downstairs and _that's_ what everyone knows.”

 

Enjolras finally raised his gaze, meeting his friend head on, “Say what you came here to say.”

 

“What I thought was a fleeting fancy has become a morbid obsession,” Marius finally confessed, sweet face pinched up, “On both sides now.”

 

“Both sides?”

 

“You know how Grantaire feels about you,” Marius collapsed into a chair, fingertips digging into his temple to fight off the growing headache, “He adores you, desperately. He looks up to you and takes your word as law. Maybe he goes against the grain just to puff you up but that's only because he likes to see you angry. When you turn away to compose yourself you miss the way he grins like the proverbial Cheshire cat.”

 

The edges in his expression softened up, a look of what could be called fondness coming over his face at the mention of Grantaire's antics.

 

“And you feel the same for him,” Marius awed, “I can see it, right now, in your eyes.”

 

Enjolras closed off his face with intent, steeling himself, “Don't be ludicrous. We have nothing in common besides a certain admiral understanding. Lately we've just been developing a bit of respect for one another, that's all.”

 

“A bit of respect?” Marius was breathless with disbelief, “You really are something. Not only are you keeping things from me but you're lying as well. You come off as untouchable but I know better. I know _you_ , Enjolras. This kid has gotten beneath your skin more than you want to admit. I've never seen you yell at one of your men until Grantaire came along.”

 

Enjolras's fingers tightened on his coffee mug, eyes fixated on the object as he tried to keep calm.

 

“I don't know why you would keep this from me, I'm your friend! You're like a brother to me and I could never judge you,” Marius continued to rant, oblivious to the growing tension in the other man, “You fell in love and didn't bother to tell me. Worse: You fell in love and made a mess of things. I could've helped you, I could still help you. You listened to me about Cosette so of course I'd be there for you. I mean, you're obviously not handling it well! I've only seen you like this once before!”

 

The blonde grimaced as he realized where this conversation was going.

 

“It was the same way with Sarah Jane in the last year of secondary school,” Marius plowed on, “You were so frustrated with yourself that you started a fist-fight at a debate meet with our rival school and while we were still icing down your jaw you told me you wanted to start a relationship with her and didn't know how to tell her. You single-handedly instigated an impromptu wrestling match at the same school's football game the next night because you saw her sitting with one of the guys from the _audience_ of that same debate!”

 

He raked a hand through his hair, “If you would just tell me when you start having feelings for someone, if you let it out to _someone_ , then maybe you wouldn't work yourself up so badly! You wouldn't get so wound up if you would just admit that you-”

 

The shatter of the coffee mug cut him off, a woody blood spatter staining the wall all at once. It was violent and sudden, startling the young Pontmercy so badly he jumped back from the table and nearly tripped over a stack of books.

 

“ _Who could love me?!_ ” Enjolras roared, face flushed with a shameful mix of past humiliation and torment, “Tell me, Marius, since you know so much! Who could love someone like me?!”

 

Marius backed up against the wall, breath hitching as his friend advanced on him, “En-”

 

“Look at me! Look at what I've done to this house!” Enjolras swept his hand around the room as he closed the distance between them, showing off the cluttered mess he'd made in only a few days, “I'm an obsessive, neurotic _mess_ with a one-track mind that leaves no room for anyone or anything else than my work. Don't you get it, Marius? Don't you understand? Look at this and tell me there's space for someone in my life! You think Grantaire has bad prospects?”

 

He got in his face, the younger froze up instinctively, “All I have is _this_ and this is _nothing_ to offer someone else.”

 

Enjolras whipped around, scrubbing a hand across his face as he tried to swallow down some of his bitterness. He went on quick feet to the kitchen, a small retreat to the cabinets to pull down a polished wine glass and his highest proof bottle of _eau de vie_. It was as clear as water as he poured it out, giving it no time to settle or breathe before he started drinking. Four loud gulps and it was gone, burning a hot path down his throat and into the depths of his stomach. He poured out another glass but didn't start on it, settling on staring it down like it had personally offended him.

 

Marius stepped away from the wall, arms crossed over his chest protectively, “You know I meant no offense. I didn't mean to imply... _Jesus_ , anything along those lines.”

 

Enjolras braced his hands on the counter, bracketing the glass of fermented wine, “Do you know why Sarah left me?”

 

Marius cursed the moment he brought up that woman's name. That last year of school they'd been so wrapped around each other, so lost in one another's eyes that they couldn't see anyone else. It had been a passionate, whirlwind romance that managed to bleed into the summer at a slow simmer. They'd only slept together twice if he could take Enjolras's word and they had spent most of their time texting, but those evenings they could have alone were apparently some of the best his friend had ever had. Enjolras had nearly been in love and he had been sure Sarah Jane had felt the same way.

 

Except...

 

In the middle of summer, with no explanation, Sarah Jane had applied for a college in America and had disappeared before he could even congratulate her. Enjolras had been...devastated, to say the least. He'd thrown himself into his work and had demanded they all cease speaking her name. Under the influence of a few too many shots, Enjolras had admitted that when he thought about her too much his chest would start to hurt, but he'd never explained why exactly.

 

“No,” Marius spoke just as softly, hoping to keep his friend from flaring again.

 

Enjolras picked up the glass, swirling it briefly before taking a long drink, “Late in June, there was that out of control protest outside Brussels? The one the police stepped in on?”

 

“The one you wouldn't let me near because it was too violent?” Marius smiled fondly at the memory of his best friend commanding him to stay home, “The one you only let Courfeyrac come with you to?”

 

“He was the only one with the stomach for it,” Enjolras slowly came around into the living room, the bottle clutched in one hand while he polished off his glass with the other, “They used rubber bullets on us. It wasn't pretty. I came back with some bloody welts. I was telling Sarah all about it and she seemed okay with it at first until I changed clothes in front of her.”

 

The blonde's handsome face twisted in an ugly scowl, “The moment she saw the marks she started crying and screaming at me about how careless I was. How I was wasting my life on something that was going to get me killed. She said my passion was _misplaced._ She said a lot of hurtful things. It boiled down to the point of...she couldn't be with a man who's main focus wasn't her. Someone who thought taking rubber bullets for peace was worth more than spending an evening with her.”

 

Those blue eyes were brimming with an old hurt, “I told her I couldn't be that man.”

 

Marius reached out for him but the blonde flinched away, setting the glass and bottle on the table. He sat down in a chair, elbows down and hands coming up to hold his heavy head.

 

“So what have I to offer someone with so much life, besides pain? What can come of a partnership with me besides sleepless nights and constant worry?”

 

 _I sound like Grantaire when he drinks too much_ , Enjolras mused silently, _I must look like a melodramatic, poetic mess_.

 

“I'm so sorry...I didn't know.”

 

“It was a long time ago, Marius, and I chose not to share it,” Enjolras dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, “You have nothing to apologize for.”

 

“On the contrary, my dear friend, I have the world to apologize for,” Marius dropped down to his knees beside him, laying a hand on the man's back while the other rested on his jean-clad knee, “You're here suffering from an ailment you've only ever come close to knowing and I'm standing here making an ass of myself. How can I expect you to ever forgive me?”

 

“Marius,” Enjolras sighed, turning his head to look at the younger man. He reached out and threaded his fingers through ginger-blonde hair, cupping the side of his friend's head. Marius smiled as he was shaken lightly like a pup.

 

“You're tired,” he pointed out, “You should stop drinking that fermented swill and go to bed.”

 

“It's not swill. Do you have any idea how much this costs?”

 

“At least let me make you a proper meal, you pompous brute,” Marius teased, getting the other to crack a smile, “Please?”

 

“If it will make you happy,” Enjolras dramatically rolled his eyes, smile widening.

 

Marius moved his hand off his back and raised it to blanket the one in his hair, giving it a squeeze, “What are you going to do, Enjolras? You can't continue like this.”

 

The blonde stayed silent, head still resting in the palm of his free hand.

 

“But you will, won't you?” Marius wasn't surprised, “You'll stay quiet and when the moment's all wrong, you'll tell him.”

 

“If I am in love, as you and Joly think I am, then I assure you I'll be the last to know.”

 

Marius slowly stood up, reluctant to break the contact between them, “Enjolras.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“For what it's worth, I believe him to be a good match for you.”

 

He spoke truthfully, for he'd never been able to speak anything but beneath his friend's intense gaze.

 

“Is that so?”

 

“It is,” Marius assured him.

 

A faint smile came to his full lips.

 

“Either you're a better liar than I've ever given you credit for, or...” Enjolras trailed off to take another swig of the bitter drink, “Or you really do know me best.”

 

The words were followed by a chuckle that held some mirth, “ 'Feyac will be so disappointed.”

 

Marius thought of his friend's right hand man and agreed, “But when is he not?”

 

Enjolras's smile didn't grow but it didn't fade either, and that was all the hope he could ask for.

 

*****

 

Clouds rolled in thick over the sky of Rouen, the threat of rain thick in their grey depths. But the air was cool and the breeze was nice so its people didn't seem to care. Eponine had dragged her best friend on a packed lunch date, dragging him out of his loft and into the nearest park. They were stretched out on a soft lay of green grass, idly watching the roll of clouds and sharing a flash. They'd finished their bottle of wine a few minutes ago and had decided lazing in the buzz of the alcohol was the best way to let their meal settle.

 

“Looking at clouds makes me want spun sugar,” Eponine wet her lips thoughtfully, “If I wasn't so full I'd demand you take me to the sweets shop.”

 

“I'm not getting up until it rains,” Grantaire rubbed his aching stomach, “I ate way too much.”

 

“What's life without a little indulgence?” she rubbed their heads together, brown locks mingling with dark curls, “I like you better without all those hats on.”

 

“Me too. It's much cooler.”

 

“You haven't been wearing them for about a week now,” she frowned, “What's changed?”

 

Grantaire bit the side of his lip, “You really want to know?”

 

“Of course,” Eponine grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers and bringing them onto her stomach. She played with the pale digits, digging her thumb into the groove of his muscle in a light massage that made his whole arm go limp.

 

“Enjolras said he liked me better without them.”

 

“Oh did he?” Eponine craned her neck, looking into his face, “What's with you and our fearless leader lately? You two seem to be growing...close, I guess.”

 

“ 'Close' is a word for it,” Grantaire took a small drink from the flask, letting it rest by his hip, “He's been talking to me, 'Ponine, _really_ talking to me and listening to.”

 

“You've always been worried about fitting in with those boys,” Eponine wrinkled up her nose when she remembered just how desperate her friend had been two years ago when the ABC hadn't accepted him, “But Enjolras has never really...I mean, he hasn't ever...”

 

She hesitated a few beats between words, “Shown in interest.”

 

Grantaire felt his heart swell up rather painfully in his chest, “This feels different though. He's touched me, if you can believe it. He's been looking at me instead of through me. I'm pretty sure we're friends now. And maybe we can-”

 

He cut himself off, closing his eyes against the pulse of rejection that came up through him, “And even if nothing comes of it, I think it's enough.”

 

“It's not,” Eponine couldn't help but state, squeezing his hand, “He knows how you feel, we all do.”

 

“And what do I feel?” he snapped curtly.

 

“I know he's the light in your life but he's not a god, no matter what you think of him,” Eponine sat up, “He's a great man, yes, but a _man_ nonetheless.”

 

He frowned.

 

“I wish you'd stop letting him have all your time and attention,” the words were out before she could bite them back, he ripped his hand away from her grasp, “It was bad enough when you simply worshipped the ground he tread on but now you've let him into every aspect of your life. He's even bleeding into your art! If you don't put a stopper in this obsession now there will be nothing left of you in a few months. Not at the rate you're going.”

 

“Why are you doing this?” Grantaire sat up too, eyes glazing over with tears he couldn't stop, “I'm finally getting somewhere with him and you're acting like he's doing me a favor. You've always said he'd be lucky to have me and now...now you're trying to throw it in my face? I don't understand.”

 

Eponine straddled his lap, cradling his face between her smooth palms, “Don't you?”

 

He shook his head silently, pleading her with his eyes to explain this hurt to him.

 

“He's tearing you apart,” Eponine could feel her throat closing up at the sight of her friend's growing anguish, “Can't you see that? Every day he doesn't love you is like shredding you up on the inside, like swallowing razorblades. When he talks to a girl at the bar or he tells you to shut up, it drives them just a little deeper. If you would just _stop_ _this_ and find someone else, I swear the ache will go away.”

 

He lowered his eyes, she just tipped his head back until their gazes could meet again, “Look at me. Look at what I've overcome. I loved Marius has much as you do Enjolras and, yes, it hurts to see him with Cosette but we can laugh together now. We can talk and have the same friends.”

 

Grantaire's mouth felt like sandpaper as he tried to talk, “I want more.”

 

“I know, I know,” she sniffed, carding her fingers through his soft curls, “But wouldn't you feel better if you just got away from him for a while?”

 

“What am I, without him?” Grantaire shook his head, “I had nothing before him, 'Ponine, you know that. He gave me a purpose.”

 

Eponine sighed sharply through her nose, holding his face just a little tighter, “You don't need him to be someone amazing.”

 

“Sometimes I feel like I do,” Grantaire confessed shamefully, “Without him around I feel useless. Wasted. I'm adrift and he's my rock. I am Orpheus and he is Apollo. He isn't mucking up my art he's what it stems from.”

 

“For Christ's sake, do you listen to yourself?” Eponine scowled, giving him a firm shake, “Will you snap out of your Shakespearean tragedy long enough to see that what you two have cannot bring happiness? You think yourselves Castor and Pollux, written in the stars, but you're going down the road of Nisus and Euryalus where his grand schemes will be the loot that drags you down to ruin together!”

 

Grantaire could vividly recall the stories of those four myths. None of them ended well. She looked so earnest too. It was a flashback to last year when their positions had been reversed, only Marius had straight out turned her down and had started going out with Cosette. Where he'd come over to her house in the mornings just to pull her out of bed, feed her coffee, force her to go to class and work. She'd been so depressed that he'd considered taking her to the doctor to get a prescription but had chosen to help her fight it instead. It had taken nearly three months to get her back to normal.

 

And if he were to man-up and tell Enjolras how he felt, that's where he'd end up.

 

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” tears slipped down her cheeks to mirror his own, “I've just been thinking this for so long and I didn't want to hurt you with it. I've been so worried and you've been so happy...but Enjolras hasn't changed. He's ignored you so long, I can't believe his affections have changed either.”

 

Grantaire wrapped his arms around her, dragging his best friend so close he could bury his face in her neck. Eponine clutched him back, dropping feathery kisses across his temple and cheek. His grip was as desperate as his attempt to keep back any weak sounds. His chest was shuddered like he was sobbing and her shirt grew warm from his near-silent tears.

 

“I love him.”

 

“God damn it,” Eponine lost her breath, “Are you serious?”

 

He nodded, face still hidden. It was a heavy burden to unload but it was good to finally say it out loud. He'd said he'd loved his Apollo in a hundred different way but never so bluntly before, not even to himself. It hurt in a good way, like scratching over a scab or pressing into a bruise.

 

“Oh, 'Taire,” her heart was breaking for him, “I wish you didn't.”

 

“No, please,” Grantaire begged, “Can we not talk about it? Please? Not today?”

 

“Okay, my love, alright,” she cooed as gently as she could, pulling his head back to look into his reddened eyes, “Let's go back to mine, okay? You can help me with my Art History assignment and I'll cook you something nice, okay?”

 

He nodded quickly, “Just no more drink, okay? I think I've had enough.”

 

“I promise not to tempt you.”

 

Grantaire cupped her smooth cheek, starting to smile, “You already do, you beautiful vixen.”

 

Eponine pressed a swift kiss to his forehead, more playful than comforting, “Flatterer.”

 

*****

 

Much later into the night, Grantaire found himself curled up in his drunk nest with his efficient little heater running. It warmed better than he had dared to hope it would and it just made him think of his Apollo that much more. He flipped onto his back and tossed his arm over his head, scrubbing his forehead across the bottom of his forearm. He'd been laying there for nearly two hours and sleep hadn't so much as grazed him. He'd even piled up another blanket for his nest but it was doing nothing for him. It wasn't that he was uncomfortable it was just-

 

_You think yourselves Castor and Pollux, written in the stars, but you're going down the road of Nisus and Euryalus where his grand schemes will be the loot that drags you down to ruin together!_

 

Grantaire flinched and jerked his head to the side, trying to dislodge his best friend's painfully honest words. He didn't know whether he was trying to fool himself or the world but he wasn't okay with all this new attention. It was everything he'd ever dared to want but not what he needed, not his darkest desire. In his selfish fantasies, Enjolras was his and his alone and they shared themselves with one another. Emotionally, mentally, physically. He knew that would never happen. His dreams, day or otherwise, were wasted on that hopeless construct.

 

But a man had his vices.

 

Grantaire dug through his nest of blankets until he found the smooth edge of his phone, curling his fingers around the weight of it and fishing it out. He unlocked the screen and stared at the display, teeth nervously worrying his lower lip until it started to sting. Busying his fingers, he checked his texts. He had a couple.

 

**Come to the pier with me tomorrow after class and sketch the mooring boats with me – Ponine**

 

**Make sure you go to class tomorrow, don't skip out early - Ferre**

 

**I'm picking up some wine, you want any? - B**

 

**Did you want to hang out tomorrow? - J**

 

**Ooops, drank it all – B**

 

The artist huffed loudly, wiggling deeper beneath the warm pile of blankets. The hum of the heater reminded him of who he actually wanted to hear from. Wishing he had a beer to help him steady his nerves, Grantaire opened up the contact and typed out a quick message.

 

**What are you doing right now? - R**

 

He regretted it immediately. He nearly sent another one telling him to forget it but couldn't bring himself to do it. He wanted a conversation and now he got it.

 

**Trying to sleep – E**

 

Grantaire rolled onto his belly, hating himself just a little more. Now he was keeping his Apollo from sleep's grasp and it added to his self-loathing. There was a buzz. He lifted his head and squinted through the darkness at the screen.

 

**But it's not working – E**

 

He smiled to himself, thumbs working over screen in reply.

 

**Me either. I've been laying here for a while, thinking, and I can't seem to relax enough to fall asleep – R**

 

**My mind's whirling, I can't calm down either – E**

 

Grantaire frowned.

 

**Did something happen today? - R**

 

**Just the normal social injustices - E**

 

**Trying to right all the wrongs in the world before bed time? - R**

 

**All in a day's work – E**

 

**The mighty Apollo here to smite the wicked and lay down his sword upon evils crown – R**

 

There was a long pause.

 

**Is it sad I actually laughed at that visual? - E**

 

**Not at all. I'm hilarious! - R**

 

**You can be - E**

 

He'd take the compliment.

 

**I guess we're both too deep of thinkers to sleep – R**

 

**Agreed. I've never slept well – E**

 

A fond smile came to his face.

 

**Me either – R**

 

**It's good for an artist, terrible for a regular office/library worker – E**

 

**And defender of justice. It must put a cramp in your crime fighting skills – R**

 

**For every hour of sleep I lose I get another wrinkle in my tights – E**

 

Grantaire laughed, a sharp bark of a sound.

 

**If you still need to unload your mind tomorrow we could meet up at Les Amis in the morning - E**

 

He immediately tapped out a teasing reply.

 

**Why not tonight? - R**

 

**Because meeting in the middle of the night on a park bench is for smoking lead roles in Indie movies. I don't support the habit of smoking so I'll have to pass – E**

 

**You're just afraid of being jumped in the park for your ass - R**

 

Grantaire's eyes widened at the response he almost immediately received.

 

**I believe if we were to sit at the park in this hour, I would find myself defending _your_ honor well before mine was questioned - E**

 

He couldn't think of anything to return. His mind had completely short-circuited at the thought of Enjolras defending him from a faceless gang of thugs. His Apollo full of righteous fury and taking them head on. Despite his pacifist nature, Enjolras regularly worked out and took mid-defense classes. He'd seen the curve of the man's arms, he knew what he was capable of.

 

**Now I've made you speechless. I have to say, it's a good feeling. I can see why you strive to do it to me all the time – E**

 

He gaped at the screen.

 

**Are you calling me girly? - R**

 

**I'm calling you attractive. I apologize if this offends your ego in some way – E**

 

Grantaire couldn't breathe.

 

**I would like you to do a flyer design for unrest in Egypt – E**

 

He blinked a few times, shaking away the last text in order to respond properly.

 

**Tell me again about it and I'll give you some ideas – R**

 

*****

 

The morning found them both slow and groggy from their restless night. Nearly a mile away from each other, the two men rolled out of bed (read: _nest_ ) and practically crawled to their respective bathrooms. In more mirror unison than they could ever guess, they leaned against the walls of their showers and let the hot water simply roll over them. Two pairs of pretty blue eyes could barely keep themselves open as they half-heartedly ran the soap over their bodies.

 

One body was fit and swollen with well-earned muscle, tan lines almost non-existent on his sun kissed skin. Soaked gold curls plastered themselves along a smooth forehead and the curve of two perfectly nice ears, face tilted up to meet the water head on.

 

The other was smooth and soft, skin even paler now amidst the ivory tile. Dark curls unfurled beneath the force of the water, smoothing out for once and sticking in odd places across his head. Short, bitten-at nails raked back the dark mess until it smoothed back to reveal a handsome face with day old stubble dusted across it. Dark rivulets of charcoal came off pale digits as they weakly blocked the spray from hitting his scrunched up eyes. Those artistic digits had worked on sketches as they'd texted the other boy the night before.

 

With matching sleepy smiles they thought of the meeting soon to come, anticipation building.

 

But Enjolras was the first to touch himself.

 

The golden boy thought of how his friend had looked in his nest of blankets, nearly naked and so sweet in sleep. His thoughts took a harsh turn and he brought up new images of what could've been if he'd been braver, more reckless. Enjolras saw himself parting those strong thighs and kneeling between them, taking his plump cock between his lips and showing him just how good his Apollo was. He'd throw his legs over his shoulders and suck him down hard, giving no mercy as he shoved two fingers between those wicked lips. Enjolras's tightened his grip on his cock as he thought of slipping his fingers inside the other's tight ass, grinding over his prostate until the artist came screaming down his throat. A few more moments of imagining Grantaire's blissful, flushed face and he came over his own fingers.

 

Grantaire lost himself to his own touch as well, sure fingers knowing just how to make his eyes roll into the back of his head. His fantasies were rougher than his counterpart, steering more toward getting pinned down across the desk in their meeting room in Les Amis's attic. The sunlight warming his bare back, the sound of their harsh breaths the only thing in the room. Enjolras would kick his legs apart, maybe holding his wrists at the base of his back. No, Grantaire quickly corrected himself and braced his other hand on the wall to lean a bit. Enjolras would pin one of his hands down and growl at him to stop moving, to stay still and take it. He'd slick him up enough to ease the way but not enough to keep him from feeling every solid inch of his cock. It'd be harsh and so-fucking-perfect. Enjolras would fucking own him. And _that_ thought sent him straight into bliss, moaning loudly into the sanctuary of his shower and arching hard into his own fist.

 

Both men scrubbed themselves down again and rushed out of the shower, more refreshed even with the added weight of guilt on their shoulders. They hurriedly dressed and made themselves presentable, the golden one checking the mirror before he left the bathroom while the paler pointedly ignored it.

 

One drove, one glided.

 

Grantaire backed up into the door of Les Amis, pushing it open mostly with his ass while he kicked his skateboard up off the sidewalk and into his arms. The bell jingled above his head, a customer passed him as they left. Early morning was big for in-and-outers, no one would be sitting down. No one except for his Apollo, if he showed.

 

And by the gods and saints above, there he was. Sitting there at a window table, two mugs of coffee in front of him. One was simply black with a splash of white but the other was piled with whipped cream and caramel drizzle. He looked as pristine as always with a heather grey v-neck that showed a tan slice of chest, thick black rimmed glasses perched on his nose. There were dark smudges beneath his eyes. Those were new.

 

Enjolras looked up when he heard the bell, eyes falling on none other than Grantaire. The artist gracefully flipped his skateboard up into his hands, tucking it under his arm just in time to avoid hitting a leaving patron with it. He looked bone-tired. He had a grey hoodie with a splash of red on it, hood slipped over his messy hair.

 

Their eyes met and those two men a mile from each other met once more.

 

Grantaire slipped into the seat opposite him, curling his hands around his coffee and bringing it to his lips immediately. He gave a little content moan into the perfectly tempered coffee. Sweet and thick, just like Fantine knew he liked it. It was too early for both of them, it as evident by the droop of their eyelids and the sluggish motions of their hands.

 

“Did you sleep?” Enjolras asked, trying not to watch the artist lick the whipped cream from the lip of the cup.

 

“Not really,” Grantaire pushed his skateboard under the table with his foot, “Maybe two or three hours after we stopped talking.”

 

“Same,” Enjolras took another drink of his coffee, letting it bathe his tongue completely before swallowing.

 

The artist crinkled up his nose, “You look run-down.”

 

“Thank you,” the other scoffed sarcastically.

 

“But you're still beautiful,” Grantaire raised the mug to his lips, smiling around the rim, “Leave it to Apollo to wake up at this ungodly hour and still be stunning.”

 

Enjolras thumbed the handle of his cup, trying to imagine how the artist's lower lip would feel instead of the cool ceramic, “Grantaire, may I ask you something?”

 

“Anything,” he promised off-handedly, scooping up some of the caramel on his thumb before popping it into his mouth.

 

“Are you happy?”

 

His dark brows knit together, tongue chasing the taste, “Hm?”

 

“In all honesty, are you happy with yourself?” Enjolras pressed, giving into the words he'd been contemplating all night, “With your life and your – your choices?”

 

“I don't think I'm ever truly happy,” Grantaire replied with all the truthfulness he was asked of, “Some days I'm just a little more content than others.”

 

He put his mug down, “What about you?”

 

“I think I may be in that same discontent boat.”

 

“That's unfortunate,” Grantaire's lips pulled down, “We could change that.”

 

Enjolras laughed light-heartedly, leaning back in the seat and bringing his coffee with him, “If you've got any ideas, let me know.”

 

They were quiet through the next half of their drinks, catching each other's eyes once in a while but never holding it for too long. Fantine swished by with breakfast cheese biscuits and a caress for the top of Grantaire's head, he kissed the back of her hand in thanks. He looked over to find Enjolras blatantly staring, even refusing to look away when he stared back.

 

“I didn't know you wore glasses, Apollo.”

 

Enjolras's shoulders went stiff, fingers coming up to adjust the spectacles, “Rarely. I wear contacts.”

 

Grantaire smiled to himself, “How endearing.”

 

A blonde brow raised in question.

 

“To find your flaws, O' Leader of Ours,” he flashed white teeth, near-feline fangs glinting, “I've been told I forget your human.”

 

Those intense eyes gained an edge, “Oh I'm human, I promise you that.”

 

“I'd like to see it.”

 

“Maybe you're not looking hard enough.”

 

Grantaire softened up, shoulders falling and smiling slipping, “There isn't another I watch more.”

 

* * *

 

**That chapter got away with me. I watched 500 Days of Summer with Joseph Gordon-Levitt and somehow this got all "Indie American Film" on me. Reviews? Comments? General appreciation? Okay, I know I'm begging, I'll stop. It's just because I love these boys and I love you guys *hugs for everyone***

**The next chapter is when stuff seriously goes down so this was just a big development leap for them. And we've been seeing Grantaire's side for so long that I thought I'd throw the ball to Enjolras. I hate unrequited love.**


	11. Body Shots and Doomed Artists

**Two quick things: 'Jean' is spelled 'Jehan' now because I've grown fond of it. And I'm making a second fanmix because I found new songs and I'm shameless with my lists.**

**Most important part: Fancasting![Montparnasse](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/55185490935/montparnasse-more-their-age-with-bright-green), [Babet](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/55218326251/babet-thin-and-talented-with-his-long-strides-and), [Claqueous](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/55186488183/claqueous-with-his-dark-eyes-and-superior-air), and [Gueulemer ](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/55185915300/lastly-gueulemer-the-mighty-hercules-of-a-man)are shown here for what they are in this fic and in my head. **

 

* * *

 

The party at Lesgle's house was impromptu. His parents had _actually_ given him permission this time and it felt like a brand-new experience. In his excitement he invited nearly everyone he'd ever talked to at the university so word got out fast and spread. Lesgle was a friendly person so he let everyone in, people circulating so often that the house never quite managed to get overrun. Thanks to Bahorel and some of his buddies, the alcohol never dried up. They'd come with two trunks full and the intent to share as much as they could.

 

It was a between-midterms-and-finals celebration, everyone was welcome.

 

Most of the ABC hung around one another, once and a while breaking off to meet up with other friends but mostly staying in a protective semi-circle. They claimed two sofas, a chair, and a coffee table to themselves.

 

Feuilly and Lesgle were off mingling, most likely checking to make sure nothing had been broken or looted yet. For all of Feuilly's talk of being a common working man and one of the guys, he certainly did put on a rather fatherly air when it came to their activities. Maybe it was because he was an orphan and his real parents had never been around or maybe he just viewed them as children, they had never really agreed. He was big on monitoring the situation and playing bodyguard while they had their fun. Though not the first to scold (that would be dear Combeferre), he always seemed to be the first on a scene. From breaking up bar fights to ending debates during meetings, Feuilly was quite reliable.

 

Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Eponine, Joly, Jehan, and Enjolras were there at the moment. Marius as well but had taken up the chair with Cosette perched in his lap, the lady sipping on simple soda while her boyfriend had procured some fruity drink that had no hope of getting him drunk. They drank and talked of their classes, laughing and gossiping, enjoying their youth to the fullest.

 

The one who seemed to be enjoying it the most was Grantaire. He was out in the crowd in the living room, all the furniture moved to the walls to leave as much space as possible for dancing. The stereo was cranked up. Toussaint, a girl who worked in Les Amis on the weekends and Cosette's friend, wasn't good at talking but she had a real talent for choosing music to fit the room. Their social butterfly of an artist was flying from partner to partner, enjoying each person's attention just as much as the last. No arms could hold him, no hands could grasp him. He was fluid among the dancers. His only staying partner had been Eponine until she'd begged to sit down and drink a bit, leaving him to his light-footed fun.

 

Grantaire finally broke it off to join them, the flush of his cheeks showing them he was tipsy but the sure stride of his legs exposed that he was not yet drunk. Enjolras wasn't at all surprised when the younger man wrapped an arm around his neck swung down to sit in his lap, back pressed against the arm rest of the couch. The blonde was more amused than annoyed. He couldn't be critical when he'd been convinced to take a few mysteriously colored shots in contest with Bahorel.

 

This wasn't a rare occurrence when they were nestled in the warm protection of their friends but for some reason this time felt even more intimate. The weight of Grantaire upon his thighs and the squeeze of his hand on his shoulder unusually stimulating. There was fresh sweat upon his pale skin that mingled with the scent of synthetic rose. He must've dabbed on some of that rarely used oil that Eponine had made a big show of giving to him last Christmas. It was a tantalizing mix that made Enjolras's mouth water. If he craned his neck he could kiss his neck, get a true taste of his flesh, but he resisted.

 

“You look so regal with all your subjects around you,” Grantaire lamented playfully, gesturing, “Let us show these people that a god can enjoy himself. Come dance with me. Claquesous has been trying to wrangle me all evening and a gentleman would be refreshing.”

 

Enjolras glanced over at the opposite end of the room and found his friend's words to be true. Claquesous was standing against the wall with the rest of the _Patron-Minette,_ dark eyes locked firmly on Grantaire as he took a hardy drink from his beer. Montparnasse was watching them as well but he was laughing, a sheen in that bright green gaze that sent a chill down the orator's spine. Enjolras laid a possessive hand on the side of the artist's thigh, shooting a glare

 

Most of the time Enjolras agreed to a dance when the song wasn't raunchy and he hadn't had too much to drink. He always refused if he smelled of smoke. The timing was perfect, no one would think twice of him accepting the offer.

 

“I don't believe I'm up for it, 'Taire,” Enjolras politely declined, restraining himself to patting the other on the knee, “But Jehan here is sitting pretty without a dance partner.”

 

Jehan nearly gargled his beer, sputtering behind his plastic cup. It was clear so they could see the way he frowned, like he couldn't believe what just been said. Grantaire pulled a pouting face but it only lasted a moment or two, eyes dancing between the two blondes with an edge of uncertainty. He covered up all his disappointment with a slapped-on grin, a familiar disguise to all who saw it.

 

“How sweet a dancer our Jehan must be for such a high recommendation,” Grantaire hopped up out of the blonde's lap, snatching the romantic's drink out of his hand and procuring both his hands in his own, “How light on your feet you must be. How happy am I to have such a majestic dance partner. Protect me from the commonwealth, Jehan, and from Claquesous's sticky hands. Dance with me!”

 

Jehan was all smiles as he let himself be pulled up and past the coffee table until they were out amongst the other happy dancers. Grantaire pulled him close once they were mingling with the lake of bodies, wrapping his arms around his neck and forcing him into a swinging hug of sorts. It was familiar and innocent, even when pressed so close together.

 

Enjolras caught Grantaire's eyes and his brief, thoughtful frown. Jehan nuzzled his cheek and grabbed his hips and then the artist's attention was back on him. Enjolras couldn't watch anymore and turned to listen to Courfeyrac try to convince Cosette that going to school outside of France would lead to nothing but disaster. He caught the argument in the middle but it sounded like she was winning.

 

A hand laid across his shoulder. He turned his head to find Joly staring at him with intent.

 

“Why did you let him go?”

 

Blonde brows rose up, “I'm sorry?”

 

“Don't play stupid, man,” Joly lowered his voice, leaning into the other,

 

He shrugged, “I just don't feel like dancing.”

 

“You guys always dance once at these things. It's like a tradition,” Joly pointed out, “Why not tonight?”

 

“Look,” Enjolras waved at the pair, “He's just as happy with Jehan.”

 

The two had grown more intimate since he'd looked away. Jehan had the artist's back pressed to his chest, hands so low on his waist he had his thumb hooked in the line of his jeans. Grantaire's arms were still around the blonde's neck, hips moving in a slow rhythm as his head lulled back to rest on the other's shoulder. Enjolras's burned at the sight of it and when he looked back to Joly his friend looked fucking sympathetic. It made his stomach churn.

 

“You and I both know that's not true,” the medical student countered.

 

“I wish you'd stop insisting things you know aren't true.”

 

Joly pursed his lips, “I should say the same to you.”

 

Bahorel came out of nowhere and practically fell between them, laying a hand on each of their shoulders and bringing them closer

 

“I'll bet one full keg that those two end up in bed before the end of the night,” Bahorel guffawed, “Look at them! Seems like our Jehan's going to get his cherry popped, huh?”

 

Both glared holes into the side of his head.

 

“What?”

 

*****

 

A crowd gathered in the spacious kitchen, chants of _bo-dy shots! bo-dy shots!_ echoing through the room and into the house. Beautiful girls and pretty boys were pulled in one after the other, begged at for just one go. Laughing and high from the attention, they tugged off their shirts and laid down to let two or three people take turns licking up wine or tequila off their smooth tummies. It was all in good fun, everybody knew almost everybody else so the familiarity was there. It was mostly friendly mirth but a few pairs got a little heated, French passions naturally flaming.

 

Grantaire playfully squirmed in the loose hold of his two friends, boys he'd met in his _Philosophy of Love and Sex_ class and had gotten on with. They called to the group that they had a live one and shoved him into it, a swarm of smiling faces tugging at his shirt and asking him so sweetly to do a round. He gave a few healthy protests before yanking off his shirt, throwing it to Eponine. She had gone before him, shirt still off to reveal the remnants of dark wine on her tan stomach and the lace of her red bra. She was a tempting mess and he blew her a kiss before he hopped up on the table. Thankfully she'd talked him into shaving what little hair he had and his torso was as smooth as it could be, providing the perfect plate.

 

One of the boys from his class ( _Christopher_ , his mind provided) declared himself the mix master and rustled up a half bottle of pale liquor, a bowl of limes, and a spice jar of salt. He announced that this round would be tequila and they should form an orderly line if they wanted any. Grantaire blushed at the amount of shoving, practically glowing under the (physical only, but still) attention. Eponine's offer had nearly caused a fist fight so he hadn't expected even a fourth of such scuffling. It boosted his ego a bit and he stretched out on the table, parting his legs to let the first person up.

 

It was a girl with fire red hair and wicked dark eyes. He'd seen her on campus and he could only place her as one of Joly's friends, maybe some knd of health student. She looked hungry. He grinned and popped a lime between his teeth, letting Chris pour a shot-worth of tequila in the hollow of his navel before sprinkling salt in a line over each pec. He'd done this before and it was always fun, even the salt-and-liquor dressing part.

 

The red head was quick to lap up the bitter liquid, making him squirm and laugh around the lime. She kissed the salt away then leaned over him to grab the wedge between her teeth, bringing them close. She took it and bit down, discarded it, then leaned in and kissed him. Grantaire couldn't deny a lady's request and shared the salty burn with her, wincing at the way it burned his throat. The citrus helped smooth it out but it almost wasn't neough. They both shook a little as they pulled away, her hands trialing down his stomach with teasing purpose before she stepped away into the grasping arms of her giggling friends.

 

The crowd around them cheered.

 

Grantaire made show of swooning, plopping back down on the table for a good laugh while Chris quickly wiped him down with a rag. He'd have to thank the man later with a dance for this because licking up after someone else was not sexy. He was dressed up again, the last of the salt getting laid close to his nipple when he saw who it was. His hands clenched into fists at his sides and he sat up on his elbows, glaring at the dark haired man between his legs now.

 

“Fuck off, Montparnasse.”

 

“What's wrong, R? I'm just here for some fun,” Montparnasse tisked good-naturedly, “Come on, be a good boy for a second, would you?”

 

Grantaire clenched his jaw so hard he could feel his teeth grinding. This was a blatant challenge. Montparnasse was testing him to see if he would act out in public and jump off the table like a spoilsport. Most of the people around them had no idea about the ABC and the _Patron-Minette_ so they wouldn't understand his objection. Lesgle was friends with the kind of people who liked to kiss the _Patron-Minette_ 's asses. They were influential, up-and-coming. If he threw a fit Eponine would go get one of the ABC, probably Feuilly, and then it would be a fight. Disgust and resignation settled in the pit of his stomach.

 

Chris offered him a lime, “You cool, man?”

 

“I'm fine,” he took the lime between his teeth, “Hurry up, fuckhead.”

 

Grantaire didn't dare lay back down, refusing to go any lower than leaning back on his elbows in front of the slippery snake. Montparnasse raised a brow at the name but his smirk was pure victory. He got uncomfortably close until the belt of his pants threatened to rub against the sensitive crook of Grantaire's groin, hands bracing on either side of his waist. The older man's tongue was slow and thick along his navel, taking his sweet time and staring up at him. Those spring eyes seared him, mouth still curved in delight.

 

He was handsome enough but he was a venomous flower, toxic upon consumption. His power, his charm, his _genetics_ made him downright dangerous.

 

And he was no Enjolras.

 

Grantaire tried not to scowl as Montparnasse moved up, slimy tongue gliding over the flat of his nipple before lapping up the salt there. The goosebumps across his chest were from disgust as dark stubble ground along the sensitive skin up to his neck. Seeing Montparnasse's lips still wet with tequila made him gag so he reached up and clamped his hand over the man's descending mouth, stopping him from getting the lime. He spat out the slice of citrus, it was his turn to smirk.

 

The group cheered, giving encouraging _whoops_ at the lack of chaser.

 

“You're a big man, 'Parnasse. I'm sure you can handle something straight up,” Grantaire mocked openly, “Go head. Swallow it.”

 

Montparnasse did, prying his hand away, “I'd like you to swallow something.”

 

“In your dreams,” Grantaire cooed just as the cries died down.

 

“Next!” Chris called as the bright eyed man stepped away, spine straight and chin raised in lingering challenge. Grantaire took the cloth this time and scrubbed the skin red, erasing as much as he could with the damp rag before tossing it aside. He was almost ready to call it quits when Jehan appeared before him, smiling so beautifully that he couldn't help but lay back and let Chris adorn him again. He could hear Eponine and Joly trying to convince someone to come up next but he didn't much care. The ABC had all seen him nearly-naked and they were all pretty comfortable with each other. Any of them were better than a stranger.

 

Jehan was sweet, kissing the top of his belly button before dipping into his navel. It was a teasing trail of lips that went the full length of his torso, tickling the plane of his chest before Jehan's pretty face was in his own. The romantic bit down in the middle of the lime, Grantaire leaned up a bit and brushed their noses in a nuzzle.

 

Jehan made a sour face and pulled back, chomping down on the lime gratefully to the sound of applause. Grantaire smacked a loud kiss to both his cheeks, ignoring the way he sputtered from the strong drink. The blonde was clapped on the shoulder by one of his friends and moved out of the way, heading to the cooler for some water or something to get the taste out.

 

“Poor boy!” Grantaire called, wiping himself down again, “Don't let him throw up on the floor!”

 

He saw Jehan give him the arm through the crowd and he blew him a kiss in return.

 

“One more!” Chris poured the tequila along his stomach, “It's a big one. Who's man enough to do it?”

 

Grantaire tried not to wiggle, one wrong move and it would send it all spilling. The salt went blatantly across his nipples this time and he shot a light-hearted glare at Chris, getting a pair of fake puppy eyes that had him smiling. Someone was shoved into him followed by laughter, hands bracing on his thighs to steady himself. He glanced down, ready to tell the guy he didn't have to if he didn't want to, but the words stuck so hard in the back of his throat he almost started coughing.

 

It was Enjolras, staring down at him with wide eyes.

 

“Sorry, 'Taire,” Enjolras retracted his hands, “Joly pushed me.”

 

Bahorel and Eponine were grinning behind him, blocking his way out with the rest of the crowd drinking and cheering around them. Grantaire gaped like a fish, a flush starting at his ears and making its way down his neck to fan out across his chest.

 

“No, no!” Enjolras laughed nervously, waving his hand as the crowd shouted encouragements, “Body shots are degrading! Civil right revolutionists didn't die so we could slurp tequila off-”

 

Their companions booed loudly. Eponine reached out and pinched the blonde hard in the side, hissing at him that they didn't give a shit what 1800's freedom-fighters did and to _get on with it_. Enjolras shot him an apologetic look, going to step away and disappear. Before Grantaire could think about it he kicked a leg around the orator's leg and dragged him back, a dumb smile breaking out across his face at the other's overly concerned expression.

 

“Come on, Apollo, they want a show,” Grantaire urged, parting his thighs a little more than necessary as his heart started to beat so hard he feared it would leave an imprint, “Might as well. I don't care.”

 

“You don't find it degrading?” Enjolras asked over the roar of their friends.

 

Grantaire shook his head, curls bouncing across his forehead.

 

Everyone was getting restless, starting up a steady rhythm of _shoot-lick-suck_ bouncing off the tiles.

 

Enjolras finally gave in, stepping up to the table to the tune of the crowd rooting. A couple people were singing an American song about shots off-key. It was an amiable environment, there was no judgment here. It was now or never because they knew that _this_ would probably never happen again.

 

Grantaire took the fat slice of lime Chris offered him, eyes locked on his leader. Enjolras's broad palms boldly laid across his hips, holding him still and burning him up at the same time. Grantaire couldn't hold his gaze so he let himself drink in the details of his hair under the harsh light, the strands striking a dark ash that made his skin look so beautifully golden. He could only think of those temple priests he'd talked about before, the ones who embodied their god and took sacrifices in their name. Supping intoxicating nectar from the navel of a low-class boy while others watched and encouraged?

 

If that wasn't pagan he didn't know what was.

 

Enjolras was skilled with his tongue, dipping and curling it so it brushed every inch of his belly button while taking up the tequila. It was smooth and wet, his traitorous cock swelling in the confines of his jeans at the slick contact. He squirmed. He couldn't help it! The liquid sloshed over and a few drops trailed down his sides. He was so stupid, he couldn't even do this right. Fucking Apollo, screwing everything up with his gorgeous face and strong hands and – oh.

 

_Oh._

 

Enjolras licked stripes above his hips, chasing each droplet with his usual single-mindedness. The artist could _really_ feel the flicks of his tongue without the tequila as a medium. He shivered on the table, feeling more exposed than he had under Montparnasse. He glanced down to his friend's Adam's apple in time to see it bob, swallowing the drink straight. Grantaire gasped as that tongue left little sparks all the way up his stomach to the base of his sternum. There were a few catcalls that made his cheeks flame that much hotter but he couldn't bother to pay attention to anything besides the way his Apollo's eyes went all unfocused and glazed over, lashes at half mast. Maybe it was the liquor but the exhale across his skin made him think it was something a little different.

 

Soft lips started their path up his pec and he couldn't help but moan.

 

***

 

Enjolras had to shift the way he stood as Grantaire's little sound of pleasure vibrated beneath his lips. He was enjoying this far more than was proper but who made up the damn etiquette rules for body shots anyway? The tequila was still hot in his throat and bitter at the back of his tongue but he hadn't wanted anything to get in the way of his exploration. He knew it was selfish but who could resist a pretty curly-haired boy spreading his legs and offering up his body as a dish?

 

It'd be a sin to decline.

 

Enjolras caught some salt on his lips but he licked that away, concentrating on the much more tempting offer just a scant inch away. He leaned further over the younger man, shielding him from the prying eyes of their piers. He suddenly wished they were alone, that he could have this moment to himself, but there was no use in wasting his thoughts on something impossible like that.

 

Feeling brave, he brushed his mouth across Grantaire's nipple and let his teeth briefly dig into the flesh. It puckered obediently, more goosebumps cropping up as the boy shuddered under his hands. It was a fine movement, barely visible except when you had your fingertips pressed down into the telling muscles of his hips. Enjolras was glad his jeans were loose enough to accommodate his building arousal because getting teased for this would only inspire protectivness and rage within him.

 

He made his way to the other side and made sure to skim his teeth along the responsive skin. When he reached his other nipple it was already stone hard and warm to the touch, the younger man arching up when his tongue took up the salt there. God above, Grantaire was the most responsive little minx. He was sent from Hell itself to seduce him. He dared to bite down, soft but firm, and this beautiful little noise bubbled up.

 

Everyone could've disappeared for all he knew. The only sounds he heard were those coming from the man beneath him.

 

Enjolras could feel the thrill taking over him, seizing up his fluttering heart in a tight fist. He used his grip on Grantaire's waist to drag the man down until they were face-to-face, nearly aligned and pressing until he could feel the leftover drops of tequila soaking through his shirt. The artist's pupils were blown and his face was all rosy, his elbows coming down on the table and lifting him up enough to offer the lime.

 

An overwhelming urge to kiss him overtook ever ounce of reason he had, the command from his heart driving his head to lean down with undeniable intent.

 

***

 

Grantaire knew he couldn't do it. Not here, not now, not by force. It seemed like a trick to dirty his Apollo's beautiful lips with his own. He didn't want to have Enjolras corner him later and apologize for any accidental buss. The older man's face loomed over his, forcing the breath from his lungs as perfect teeth were unsheathed and closed around the middle of the lime.

 

So close. One little movement and they could be-

 

No, it wasn't fair. He couldn't take what he wanted like this.

 

Grantaire turned his head away the moment he could, panting with the exertion of tearing his eyes and mouth from his leader. He could feel the heat of Enjolras stay for a moment before he eased off, looking back when he deemed it safe to watch him devour the fruit until there was only the bone of he rind left. There was something on his face, some kind of emotion he couldn't decipher.

 

But then Chris was tugging him off the table and he could ignore the tension in the room to laugh and wipe the excess salt and liquor from his stomach. The towel brushed his over-sensitive nipples and forced a little sound from his throat. _Christ._ Enjolras had bitten them. Not quite but enough to make him rock hard. He took the shirt someone threw at him and barely noticed it was his own while he tugged it on, chuckling with the others as he thought of every dead animal he'd ever seen in hopes of killing his erection.

 

Enjolras disappeared and for the first time he was thankful to be out of his Apollo's burning sight.

 

***

 

Jehan nearly ran into Enjolras, both beating a retreat from the kitchen with flushed faces and aching dicks. But while the orator headed toward the main room with the most people, the romantic slipped into the second living room that was occupied by a high-stakes card game and small group in front of a big screen battling it out video game style. No one would pay attention to a straggler. He needed a moment to breathe and collect himself.

 

Jehan subtly adjusted himself in his pants, trying to will away the hardness there. Grantaire had been so warm and delicious beneath his tongue and he hated himeslf for indulging to easily. He knew better than to loose himself in those feelings but his love had looked so beautiful stretched out on that cheap table...he couldn't have stopped himself if he'd wanted to.

 

He could've kissed him. He _should've_ kissed him. Damn it! This was the kind of opportunity he was always wishing and writing about, how could he let it slip through his fingers like that? Being around Grantaire always made him so stupid, so hazy-

 

Rough hands grabbed him and shoved him in a corner, a man blocking his view and pushing up close.

 

“If it isn't my favorite pretty boy?”

 

“What do you want, Mont?” Jehan demanded, cursing the way the man clamped down on his hips until they stung, “I swear to God, if you leave a bruise, Feuilly will-”

 

“He'll what?” Montparnasse cut him off swiftly, smiling, “And don't be so mean. You're mouth's too pretty to try and threaten.”

 

“Stop,” Jehan turned his head away when the man tried to kiss him, lightly chapped lips finding home on the crook of his neck instead, “Stop!”

 

“Easy, dove, easy,” Montparnasse cooed, lightening his grip and rubbing away the ache with surprisingly tender motions, “You know I'm just teasing, you know I won't hurt you. I won't leave even one little mark on that beautiful skin, you watch. No one will even know I was here.”

 

Jehan put a hand on his chest, pushing him back until they were at least a head apart, “What do you want? If the others see me talking to you, they'll want an answer.”

 

“No one will see us,” the older man promised, “Because if you let me talk, I'll be out of your hair in just a scant minute.”

 

“Be quick,” the blonde demanded, wiggling further in the corner to keep their bodies apart. Thankfully the other didn't follow him.

 

“I want you to help me pull a little prank on Enjolras,” Montparnasse explained, sounding as light-hearted as he'd ever heard him, “A _tiny_ little coo, a brief moment of unbridled mirth. Just enough to ruffle up his feathers, get his ducks out of a row. You wold like that, wouldn't you?”

 

“I have no ill will against-”

 

“Stuff it, brat,” Montparnasse chuckled, “That blonde twat has stolen the heart of your beloved and has done nothing but stomp on it since. He's an ungrateful brat and even _you_ , my sweetest poet, can agree to that.”

 

Jehan frowned sharply but didn't deny.

 

“Pray, agree?”

“What...would I have to do?”

 

“There's my sweet boy,” Montparnasse actually purred, raising a hand and curling his knuckle just beneath the blonde's chin, “All I want you to do is steal his phone. Just for half an hour, maybe.”

 

He swatted his hand away, “What are you going to do?”

 

“Change the names a bit, switch the language to Spanish, I don't know,” the older man rolled his eyes, “It's _spontanious_ , Jehan, what do you expect? It's for a bit of fun. We won't harm it and we won't delete anything. I swear on my mother's grave.”

 

“I'm glad not to be her,” Jehan's eyes flickered over him, thinking of the way he'd looked up to see Enjolras teasing Grantaire's dark nipple with his teeth, “So I steal his phone, then what?”

 

“Just give it to me and I'll see it gets back to him.”

 

He pursed his lips, “I don't trust you.”

 

“Oh, dove,” he ran his thumb along the tight line of his mouth, “I'm not asking you to.”

 

***

 

Jehan didn't advertise his past time of pick-pocketing to most people. Montparnasse only knew because he'd caught him after a lift. It was cheap thrill he'd learned as a kid and had always kept. He had light fingers, he always had.

 

Jehan weaved through the crowd in front of the cooler in the living room. He spotted Enjolras's phone sticking half out of his back pocket and he had to do it now. The blonde leaned into the orator and grabbed a beer out of the ice, purposfully swaying into him as he plucked up his phone and slipped it into the baggy pocket of his cargo pants.

 

“Whoa,” Enjolras reached out and steadied him, keeping a hand on him until he was upright, “Are you alright, Jehan? You're not drinking too much, are you?”

 

“I'll nurse it, I promise,” Jehan lied, feeling his ears warming in shame. The other seemed so concerned and it made the newly acquired phone in his pocket feel like a twenty pound dumbbell.

 

“Just stay steady on your feet,” he patted his shoulder, “If you need me to call a cab, I will.”

 

He was offcially the shittiest person in the world.

 

“Thanks,” Jehan choked out.

 

After he gave the phone off to Montparnasse he downed the entire beer to cover up his nausea.

 

***

 

About an hour later Jehan found himself outside with Grantaire.

 

The two had taken to the back porch. Some of the party had spilled out on the lawn but it was mostly upperclassmen smoking weed in lazy circles. Their soft conversation drifted up onto the porch, a comforting sound. The air was getting cold but not enough to pierce their coats. The two friends were side-by-side on the steps. They shared a cigarette and a flask, warming themselves with some hard whiskey that made their tongues and skin tingle pleasantly.

 

“You can almost feel the riots in the air,” smoke poured over Grantaire's lips as he spoke, slipping the cigarette back to grateful fingers.

 

“Do you think it'll get violent?” Jehan inquired, getting more courage with each sip.

 

“God I hope not,” the artist pressed their shoulders together, arms hugged around his chest to try and conserve some warmth, “It's bad enough we got arrested. I'd hate to see Enjolras react to us getting involved in something violent. He still rants about that time he took 'Feyrac to Brussels.”

 

“He does,” Jehan laughed weakly.

 

Grantaire let the cigarette dangle between his lips for a while in thought. From the faraway look in his eyes it was almost a guarantee he was thinking on his Apollo, the shining star that his world revolved around. It was enough to make his gut sour. He wanted Grantaire to think of _him_ like that, to spout poetry of his beauty and sketch his eyes like it was as natural as breath. Jehan snatched the cigarette and leaned forward, taking advantage of the moment and pressing a kiss to his surprised mouth. It sent a new kind of warmth through him, the kind that reached your fingers and toes and made you breathless. The artist gasped in what he thought was pleasure but when he pulled away it saw it was just confusion.

 

“What was that for?” Grantaire laughed nervously.

 

Jehan swallowed thickly before stealing another kiss, this one harder.

 

“Darling poet,” Grantaire started to protest, putting a hand on his shoulder and pushing him back, “You really are a lightweight. No more for you tonight.”

 

“I love you,” Jehan admitted suddenly, surprising himself, “More than I can say.”

 

The artist found himself truly at a loss for words.

 

“I know you love Enjolras and I know no one could ever measure up to him in your eyes, but-” he bit down on his lower lip to stifle any wavering, tears burning a threat just behind his eyes, “But the only thing I know is how much I care about you. He can't put you above France but I can. Your happiness is everything to me.”

 

Grantaire's eyes were all rounded out, lips parted in a soft _'o'_ of realization. It made the poet desperate.

 

“I can't be him but maybe I could for you,” it sounded pathetic but he needed to say something ( _anything_ ) to make Grantaire see his heart was true, “Look!”

 

He grabbed the other's hand and brought it up into his hair, the hay-colored locks eating up his digits, “I grew my hair long like his, for you. I know it's stupid but I thought if you had me, you could pretend-”

 

Grantaire grabbed him by both sides of the head and kissed him rather soundly on the mouth, shutting him up.

 

“Never say that again,” Grantaire begged, pulling away with a pained grimace, “You are worth so much more than someone's replacement. You deserve more than someone who's heart belongs to someone else.”

 

Jehan shook his head, “I'm not. I would go through it for you, R, don't you see that?”

 

“Jesus,” Grantaire cursed, lowering his hands until he could lace in his fingers in all of the other man's, “Just...just listen.”

 

Jehan gripped him tight, nodding. He'd agree to anything as long as his friend didn't pull away.

 

“I know this will sound cliché but it's all so true,” Grantaire began adamantly, “Enjolras has...he has my heart and soul. The moment he spoke to me I was blinded to all others. Even someone as handsome and endearing as you.”

 

“ _Endearing_ ,” he tasted the word with a scowl, “Like a puppy.”

 

“Like a lovely romantic with the kindest demeanor I've ever encountered,” Grantaire corrected swiftly, “And whoever you chose to give your heart to should love you twice as much. They should be ready to take a bullet for you, to lay themselves out for you.”

 

He nibbled on a rough spot along his bottom lip, “That person for me is Enjolras.”

 

Jehan's lips pulled down sharply, eyes crinkling up in the corners. It was pure heartbreak and it made Grantaire so nauseas he choked.

 

“I'm trying to be gentle but my heart is cut up just looking at you,” Grantaire confessed brokenly, “I don't want to hurt you, I swear this. Unrequited love stings so deeply. I know. I feel it everyday. We suffer together, _cherie_ , and I'm sorry for that.”

 

The romantic's chest shook dangerously, threatening to collapse in a sob.

 

“I wish I could love you,” a tear trailed down Grantaire's pale cheeks, “If I could tear my heart back from Apollo, I would, for you. But I can't.”

 

Jehan was crying quietly too, still holding on tight to his hands. It was the only anchor that kept them from making an embarrassing mess of themselves. They kept their composure but it was hard, the alcohol didn't help.

 

“It would be so easy with me,” Jehan tried weakly.

 

“It would, wouldn't it?” Grantaire tried to smile but it hurt, “But every breath I take is for him and there's nothing I can do about it.

 

The blonde took his hands away and wiped his face, managing to keep anything fresh from springing up, “How do you live with this pain? This ache?”

 

Grantaire wanted to hug him but he stomped down that instinct, “You just do.”

 

There was a sweet little chime from his phone. He dug it out of his pocket and unlocked the screen, flicking open the new text.

 

“I have to go,” Grantaire got to his feet, just a hint of a frown on his mouth, “It's Enjolras. He wants me to meet him upstairs in the guest room for some reason. I'm sorry, it sounds important.”

 

It must've been about the changed contacts or switched languages. Of course Enjolras would think it Grantaire, he always got the blame for any speck of mischief.

 

Jehan nodded, feeling a rock settling in his gut as he handed the man his flask back, “One question?”

 

He nodded, almost afraid.

 

“Are we still friends?”

 

Grantaire knelt down and hugged him close, rubbing his cheek against the hay colored hair. Jehan leaned up into it, taking the embrace for what it was.

 

“Always,” Grantaire promised, kissing his forehead, “I'll see you later, okay?”

 

“Maybe we can...?” but his voice died.

 

“Tomorrow, you and me, dinner at mine,” Grantaire wiped another tear off the blonde's face, his tone light-hearted, “We'll watch _Casablanca_ again and maybe this time you can convince me it's a romance movie.”

 

He nodded tightly, “I can sure as hell try.”

 

Grantaire stood once more and downed the rest of the flask, swaying on his feet when it went straight to his head. He headed up the stairs once he was steady and ran his fingers across the younger man's shoulder as he passed.

 

Jehan didn't stay on those steps long enough to finish the cigarette before he was rushing inside. Usually when he felt this sick inside like this he'd go to Grantaire to soothe his hurt or Enjolras to right the wrong, but neither were appropriate. There was a third, a protector.

 

Feuilly listened to the entire thing. He left out the part about Montparnasse and stealing the mobile but everything else spilled out. He replayed his confession to his friend and let him soak it up, evaluating it as one would a narrative. After he was done he took the offered bottle of water and let it cool his raw throat. He wasn't close to tears anymore but the rejection was tying knots up in his gut that he knew wouldn't go away for a while. Feuilly put an arm around him and brought him into his body. A couple knots loosened up.

 

“I don't understand Grantaire,” Feuilly huffed, giving the boy's smaller shoulder a firm squeeze, “He's just another silly drunk artist in France. He's a walking cliché. You can run into anyone like him turning a corner too fast in Paris. He's not so special, kid, you'll find another.”

 

Jehan nodded dejectedly, the arm coming up to twine around his neck and bring him close enough to get an affectionate nuzzle against his cheek.

 

“Try not to put so much stock in him,” Feuilly nudged him again with his nose, finally drawing something like a smile out of him, “You're a splendid little poet and a wonderful boy. Don't let him steal all your love. Don't let him rob you of hope. You have a lot to give.”

 

Joly joined them, cutting off their conversation. Combeferre and Enjolras came up shortly after. The topic turned toward the recent scandal at the university. Their Physics teacher, a well-known bachelor, had been caught red-handed sleeping with a fleet of female students. All willing, all of age, but certainly a moral blow to the school's reputation. Combeferre wrote for the newspaper and he was outraged, his voice ebbing and flowing with the certainty that it would take a year to recover any sort of pride. The school was precious to the quiet blonde, he knew all the teachers by their first names.

 

“You knew Corvin, didn't you?” Joly inquired.

 

“I did,” there was a stern frown on the blonde's handsome face, “The moment I suspected he was passing the girls on physicality instead of merit, I gathered data and witnesses and presented my case to the school council.”

 

Enjolras chuckled heartily, “You should have seen him. He was quite stern and fearsome. I was proud to sit next to him.”

 

“And I'm proud of _you_ for not butting in and trying to take over the whole proceeding,” Combeferre clinked their beers together, “Though we can't change what happened, we can make damn sure it won't happen again. No one will even _think_ of touching another student for a good five years. I can almost guarantee it.”

 

Enjolras was about to add something but it slipped his mind when someone tapped his shoulder. It was a badly done bottle blonde with big, dark eyes and a cute mouth. She had her arms tucked behind her back to emphasize the curve of her plump chest. It took a moment for him to realize it was Helena, Thenardier's long-time girlfriend. The two were a scuzzy couple that hung around the _Patron-Minette_ but they were harmless enough with their petty theft at bars. As long as they stayed away from the Musain or Les Amis, the ABC let them be.

 

“Enjolras?”

 

“Helena,” the blonde nodded politely.

 

“I'm sorry, sir, I think this is yours,” she was playing coy as her hand came out and unfurled to reveal a phone, “I found it on the table.”

 

Enjolras patted his back pocket with a sharp frown, “That's not funny.”

 

Helena only smiled as she dropped it into his palm.

 

“Hey!” Feuilly shot his hand out and grabbed her tight by the wrist, “If I catch you or that slimeball you call a boyfriend snatching up our stuff again, your both in for a good thumping.”

 

“Oh, Feuilly, I didn't know you cared!” Helena gave a girly squeal, throwing herself into his surprised arms, “I'll bring the handcuffs if you supply the wine!”

 

She laughed in his face and spun away, weaving and blending back into the small crowd.

 

Feuilly pulled a face and wiped his hands off on his shirt, “Greasy little trollop, isn't she?”

 

“Nasty little brat,” Enjolras opened his phone and skimmed through it, finding everything intact, “If I go through this tomorrow and find even one thing out of place, I'll drown them both and be done with it.”

 

“Here, here,” Joly took a drink to that.

 

Jehan's fingers were nervously playing with the label of his beer, unease crawling through him.

 

***

 

Grantaire passed by a girl from one of his art classes and took the beer she tossed to him, twisting off the top and sucking down a bit with an exaggerated moan.

 

“Nectar from a goddess!”

 

She laughed and turned back to her friends, telling them who he was. Grantaire considered to sup from the bottle as he made his way to the second – no, _third_ – guest bedroom. Enjolras said to meet him there, that he had something to show him, and that he had better move his ass. It was on the second floor and most of the party had left it alone considering it was mostly locked bedrooms (Lesgle didn't want any sex in the house, it was like the _only_ rule). Maybe his fearless leader had found someone in trouble or someone had broken something and he was looking for the culprit. He hadn't seen any of the ABC on the way inside. Maybe they were clustered together in the room?

 

Grantaire grabbed the doorknob and tested, finding it open. He swung open the door with a flourish, walking in without reserve. It was dark and he squinted to help his eyes adjust.

 

“And what have you to show me, Apollo?” he barely got the words out before his mouth was flooded with the taste of his own blood. The fist hit him out of nowhere, sending him staggering. Hands reached out and grabbed him, dragging him further into the room. He was pulled up close to a square jaw and dull brown eyes.

 

“Gu-Gueulemer?” Grantaire stuttered, meaty fingers sinking into his lapel and pulling him up until he was on his toes. He pushed at the stalwart fists, feet kicking blinding at shins, teeth snapping to try and grasp a knuckle, but it was to no avail. He had no leverage.

 

Babet appeared before him like a ghost, thin fingers grasping just right at each side of jaw bone to make it fall open. The skinny bastard slipped two more digits into his mouth, pushing something bitter past his tongue and down into his throat. He gagged hard around the small, round tablets but he could feel the heavy drop of them into his stomach. He'd had this before, he knew what this was. He'd only tried it twice and both times he'd reacted badly to it. So badly he had been forced to call Joly, the second time he'd been crying.

 

MDMA. Ecstasy.

 

“Just a little something to help you relax,” Babet's oily whisper did little to ease his nerves.

 

Gueulemer released one fistful of his shirt only to spin him around, twisting his arm so high up his back that it made him arch. He had more stable footing but nothing to give him a one-up. He knew the routine. Be quiet, don't give them anything, let them threaten and punch you, and then they'd let you go. Montparnasse was watching with his arms crossed just a few feet away, a more serious intent in his eyes than usual.

 

This wasn't a dust up.

 

“I think you dropped this, R,” Claquesous came up on his other side, beer in hand, “Wouldn't want it to go to waste. Allow me.”

 

The lip of the bottle tilted toward him with purpose, touching his mouth. Grantaire clamped his jaw shut and shook his head, refusing it. Babet cocked an eyebrow at him and raised his fingers threateningly.

 

“No, no, no,” Montparnasse tisked disapprovingly, “You mustn't make us feel rude for not letting you finish. Wash it down.”

 

Grantaire felt a fine tremble go through him. There was a faint ticking in the room from a clock but it felt internalized, like a timer. Sooner rather than later with that dosage. Who knew what the drug had been cut with let alone the milligram count. How much had they given him? If he could just get to his phone he could call Joly, he always answered his phone. He still had use of one hand. He could do it.

 

The artist parted his lips and Claquesous tilted the beer between them. He tried to make a show of it, keeping his lashes low and drinking it slow. As expected, Gueulemer loosened his hold just a bit at his compliance. He arched his back just a little more, tilting his head enough to show off his neck as his hand inched toward his pocket. He looked over to see Montparnasse staring at his bobbing throat. The man had a thing for them, he'd seen the marks he'd left on the necks of a few poor girls. His thumb edged into his pocket, brushing the smooth plastic of his phone.

 

Babet grabbed his wrist, his thumb digging hard into the underbelly of his wrist. Grantaire's hand spasmed sharply and the phone dropped to the floor with a sharp clatter. The beer was taken from his mouth to be replaced with a swift back hand that made his jaw sting.

 

“You little shit,” Montparnasse laughed in amazement, “You actually think I was going to let you off that easy?”

 

“Just get it over with,” Grantaire spat, “You're not going to do anything new.”

 

“No?” those eyes glinted, “Are you sure?”

 

That sent a wash of cold through him. They were forming a circle around him, just the four of them but enough to outnumber him by far. He took a quick stock of his body. His arm was starting to cramp and his knees were a bit watery from the alcohol. It would only get worse.

 

“Fuck you guys!” there was a new desperation in his voice, “I don't know what you want but you're not going to get it from me. I don't know shit! I mean, look at me, 'Parnasse. Who in their right minds would tell me anything?”

 

“Oh shut up,” Montparnasse rolled his eyes, “You can be so stupid, R. We're not here for your petty little group. I only want one thing and it rises above all else.”

 

The artist's brow pinched up, “What? What have I got that you could want?”

 

“I want Enjolras,” that handsome face twisted with a nasty scowl, eyes haunted by every ill word and action he'd exchanged with the revolutionary, “More importantly, I want him and everything he cares about broken and burnt at my feet. I want him _humiliated_ and discredited.”

 

Pale fingers came up and caught a single raven curl between them, and to his credit he didn't flinch, “And where else to start than his loyal lapdog?”

 

Grantaire shook his head but couldn't voice a protest, dreading seizing up his throat.

 

“We know you're fucking,” Claquesous finished off the beer, “We thought he was a little too high class for you until we saw that smutty scene in the kitchen.”

 

“Who knew Enjolras would slum so hard?” Babet laughed openly, still holding onto his wrist, “I thought he'd have a better predilection in bed partners.”

 

“We shouldn't judge,” Montparnasse scolded light-heartedly, “It's just not polite. We can agree upon his sweet mouth, can we not?”

 

“His skin's soft,” Gueulemer grunted, “Smells nice too.”

 

“See? There we go!” Montparnasse gestured at the flushed artist, “Enjolras may be a dizzy idealist with unrealistic ambition but he has _some_ taste.”

 

The ridiculousness of the situation, “So which is it?”

 

That actually threw off the man, “What?”

 

“Which is it?” Grantaire repeated with a simper, “Are you stupid or just plain blind?”

 

“Ha, _funny_ ,” Montparnasse punctuated his sentence with a swift punch to his right side. He swallowed down a low groan. He'd taken worse but the bruises his brother had given him had lingered and they protested to the strike. It had only been, what, two weeks? It didn't hurt when he breathed anymore but he was sure it would after tonight.

 

“So stupid,” he huffed out, curling in on himself as best he could with the dull blonde brute holding him with a renewed strength, “Enjolras wouldn't touch me.”

 

Full lips quirked, “Not after we're through with you, he won't.”

 

“Just not the face,” Grantaire snarked, putting on a brave face in spite of the nausea he could feel welling up within him, “Or the fingers. That's how I make my money and _no one's_ going to forgive you if you break them.”

 

“So cocky,” Montparnasse hissed through his teeth, fingers lashing like snakes to fist up his hair and force his head to the side, “But you've always been a little spitfire, haven't you? Always nipping on Enjolras's heels, always panting for some attention. So shameless in the way you flaunt yourself at the bars.”

 

“What do you want from me?” Grantaire repeated, steadying his gaze upon the older man. He yanked his head away and some hairs gave way but he needed to see his eyes. They were unusually polished with just the light from the street lamps pouring in from the windows. To think, he used to think this man handsome. If he'd had any doubts before that Montparnasse was the devil in disguise they were gone now.

 

The older man's face smoothed out, that mask of calm slipping back on, “ _That's_ what I want from you, Grantaire. I want your precious _Apollo_ to see that shamelessness. I want him sickened at the sight of you. I want him to spurn every touch and kiss you could ever offer.”

 

Grantaire tried to pull away but the hulking man behind him held firm. Montparnasse's hand slid down to cup his cheek in a wholly different touch, the pressure of fingertips just under his jaw agonizingly tender.

 

“I want him to look at you and see only me. I don't think that's much to ask,” his hand dropped limply to his side, “We have a few minutes to kill and I want him tender. Pin him down and _keep_ him there.”

* * *

**Sorry about the cliffhanger but the chapter was getting way too long. Get ready for some serious Hurt/Comfort in the next one.**

**And, dear readers, this is very important to me. I've written some terrible shit in my life, some violent things. But for this fic I need some feedback to continue. On a scale of 1-10, how badly do you want to see Grantaire hurt? I have like six ideas and all of them are amazingly evil. Just drop a number if you can. If not, that's cool too. I'm just all about reader-involvement with fanfic and I love you guys so much!**

**Hope you enjoyed this!**  

 


	12. Assault You With Your Own Affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! There are artsy/vague implications of heavy molestation, definitely further than dubious consent, drug use, and moderate violence. If that offends you, I heavily suggest skipping down to the third set of asterisks and reading after that because that little scene is important.

“What?” Grantaire found himself swept off his feet, “Stop!”

 

He landed with a breathless _oof_ onto his back, Gueulemer and Claquesous dropping down on either side of him and laying their heavy knees on his forearms. He instinctively yanked at his arms to free them and the first cry of pain escaped him, skin and bone pinched down hard enough to send sharp jolts into his shoulders. Babet was at his feet, grinning as he made a grab for his ankles. Grantaire kicked out, landing his heel squarely in the middle of the man's chest and sending him back on his ass.

 

Montparnasse dropped down to straddle his chest and he knew it was all over. He had no delusions about what they wanted but he prayed they were too lily-livered to go through with it. Maybe they'd bust up his face and scare the hell out of him before leaving him here for his friends to find. They were bastards but they weren't _rapists._

 

Jesus, he hoped they weren't.

 

Montparnasse's lips were pulled in a devious smirk that belonged on that of a carved pumpkin during All Hallows' Eve. A hand, quick as lightning and just as deadly, shot down and curled around his neck. The top pads of his palm laid perfectly along the swell of the flesh, the joint of his thumb curling around the bob of his Adam's Apple.

 

Then Montparnasse showed him just how true those rumors about his neck fetish were.

 

He started small, just squeezing at first, but tightening in slow pulses until Grantaire was gasping. He would clenched down on his windpipe just long enough to make his eyes water before releasing him to a soft caress. It was maddening and his throat soon turned raw. Every breath started to hurt like someone was pressing down upon a bruise.

 

“This leaves the most lovely marks, I find,” Montparnasse huffed out, a single strand of hair falling into his face, “I do so love to see my hand print around a pale throat. Nothing like it.”

 

“Sick fuck,” Grantaire coughed out, fingers flexing desperately to keep the circulation going. The heat was gone from the points where the other men had their knees dug into him.

 

Somewhere from his feet there was a dark chuckle, “You don't know the half of it.”

 

Minutes bled by. The only timeline he could keep was the bursts of air he got, tears pooling in his eyes to fall in weak trickles down into his hair. Despite his mounting anxiety he refused to make another noise besides the desperate pants to keep his lungs full. A high-pitched buzzing started in the base of his skull. At first he thought it was from the lack of oxygen but it was persistent. Growing and raising until it danced between his ears like music. His head was starting to fuzz up like someone had stuffed it with dryer lint and feather down, just pinches at a time until he could to feel it behind his eyes.

 

Montparnasse let go of him to sit back and observe, “Doesn't he look about ripe?”

 

“More than,” Claquesous commented rather darkly.

 

Montparnasse pulled out his phone, putting his free thumb to the artist's chin and pushing it sideways to reveal the marked curve of his neck. His head felt too heavy to fight the touch and he could only wince as he heard the shutter clicks from the device.

 

“Beautiful,” he muttered, “I shall have that printed and framed.”

 

Slowly the boys backed off him one by one, letting the artist puff and rub at his neck.

 

Grantaire rolled onto his stomach, chin tucked to his chest as he started to cough. There was pain from the bottom of his jaw to the top of his clavicle, like the older man's fingers were still pressing down into him. He didn't know what the men were waiting on but the harder he thought about it the more his concentration wavered, like trying to hold too tight to sand at a beach. From here he could see the window and it looked like an escape as much as anything else. Keeping his surely blood-shot eyes on the curtains as an anchor, the artist started to crawl on his elbows toward it.

 

“For God's sake,” Montparnasse hissed through his teeth, “Pick him up before he hurts himself.”

 

Gueulemer obeyed with one hand, dragging the artist up to his feet by a handful of shirt. The muscles in his arm bulged noticeably but his expression didn't change. Montparnasse closed the distance between them and laid the solid line of his fingers along Grantaire's pulse, pressing harder than necessary and cocking his head like he was thinking over its pace.

 

“Hmm, yes, just listen to that hummingbird heart,” Montparnasse nodded at Claquesous, the blonde split an eager grin, “He's good and ready.”

 

It dissolved into some terrible game of pass-around between the boys with Grantaire as the ball. They'd grab him, tug hard at his shirt or give him a hasty punch before pushing him toward the next. It was disorientating, each blow as much a surprise as the next.

 

A vivid memory of his father backhanding him into a wall made him cry out more than the next blow.

 

There was something like a balloon swelling at the top of his chest, curling around his heart and making it flutter like a wild bird. It was getting harder to catch his breath but he wasn't sure it had anything to do with Montparnasse's iron grip. Joly had told him a dozen times to never touch X again. He remembered promising him so easily at the time because he'd never expected something like this to go down.

 

Grantaire tried to fight back but his blows were grazing, it didn't slow them down at all. He stomped down on Claquesous's foot so hard the man yelped and got a backhand that would probably bruise in a few hours. Another flash recollection of father whipped through his mind and a few more unwilling tears escaped.

 

Babet was the one to finally tear off his shirt.

 

“Look at those marks,” Claquesous whistled lowly at the faint red lines across the man's chest from Enjolras's little exploration, “A little possessive, isn't he?”

 

Grantaire focused long enough on his smirking face to clock him straight in the nose. The man roared and pulled back, eyes instantly watering up and hands clutching his face. Crimson started to seep through his digits and when they fell it revealed not only a gush of blood but a twisted scowl.

 

“You little bitch!” Babet surged forward and grabbed him by the shoulders, driving his knee up and hard into his stomach. Grantaire gagged loudly on bile but he managed to keep everything down. His air, however, had left him completely. He doubled over on himself but didn't get a chance to move away before another blow caught him in the chest.

 

“Don't break him,” Montparnasse drawled lazily, though the swell in his jeans showed just how interested he actually was, “We're only getting started.”

 

Still reeling, he was shoved back until he smacked into Claquesous. Strong fingers ran down his back and across his ribs, digging in until hot pulses tore through his torso. The numbness hit him all at once, knees nearly buckling and arms going heavy at his sides. It was just like last time. Joly had told him something about his brain not kicking in the serotonin that changed that numbness to a high, that instead of relaxing his body just tried to shut down in response to the MDMA in his system. The heat chased the feeling, a new layer of sweat breaking across his skin.

 

“Fuck,” Grantaire wheezed, dropping down to one knee only to have Gueulemer yank him back up, “You th'nk I'm 'fraid 'ah you?”

 

Babet was glaring him down and sopping up his bloody nose with a handkerchief, testing it to see if it was broken. The bastard was lucky and it stayed firm.

 

“There's only one person to blame for this and that's your sun god,” Montparnasse pointed out, catching the artist's attention, “He's the one who gave you up.”

 

Grantaire couldn't quite process what he was saying. He blinked hard enough to hurt, the gears in his head running like they were rusting. Enjolras did...what? Gave him up? What did that mean?

 

Montparnasse kept his voice soft, watching the boy carefully to make sure he was out of it enough to believe him, “I asked if we could have you, and he said yes.”

 

The world snapped back into focus.

 

“You're lying!” Grantaire barked, tremors working up from his fingers into his shoulders and down through his ribs, “He doesn't treat people like that! Not me!”

 

He took a raw breath, thinking only of impossibly golden hair, “N-Not me.”

 

Montparnasse waved his phone, “Shall we call and see?”

 

It was like a signal. Gueulemer snatched him up and tossed him too easily onto the guest bed. Grantaire flailed gracelessly, scattering the pillows to the floor. Someone drove a knee into the dip of his back but he couldn't even twist to see who it was. A hand fisted in his curls and buried his face in the bedding, making him struggle just that much more for a full breath. His palms slid across the top blanket uselessly, sliding off it from sweat and weakness. It was so unbearably humid against the bed and he could feel tears escaping before he could choke them down again.

 

He had to keep fighting. He couldn't give in, not even for a moment.

 

***

 

Enjolras was in the middle of explaining to Feuilly just why the incident in Belfast could happen here in France when his phone went off. He gave a quick apology before pulling it out and checking the screen.

 

“Montparnasse,” Enjolras growled, cheery mood deflating the moment he put the receiver to his ear, “What do you want?”

 

“ _Not a good time?_ ”

 

“Just make it quick,” Enjolras rolled his eyes at Joly, the brunette made a cut-throat gesture in return.

 

“ _You recall Gervaise, don't you? He's a boy who used to work for your little organization. He's approached me and he'd make an excellent little runner._ ”

 

“First of all, I don't know what you're talking about,” Enjolras rattled off, patience wearing thin, “Second, I don't care.”

 

“ _I think you do._ ”

 

“Really? I _know_ I don't.”

 

“ _You are such a stubborn mule_ ,” Montparnasse chuckled lightly in his ear, “ _I just want your permission to hire him on. Seeing as we're not on the same side, I believe it to be a common courtesy_.”

 

“There are no sides, you impish glutton,” Enjolras cursed as politely as he could while he kept his temper, “And I don't give a damn what you do with him.”

 

Montparnasse gave a sort of musical hum underlined with a faint beep from the phone, “ _I'm sorry?_ ”

 

“Just take him if that's what you want!” he snapped into the phone, so loud it made all his friends stare, “I don't care what he tells you, I don't want him crawling back here. Anything else?”

 

“ _That's all._ ”

 

“For God's sake,” he growled as he hung up, frustration crinkling his brow.

 

“What was that about?” Jehan asked hurriedly.

 

“Montparnasse was just asking me about a boy I used to have gather information for me,” Enjolras tucked his phone away angrily, “If you ask me he was just pestering me for the sake of it.”

 

***

 

Babet pulled him up by his hair, every sound in the room rushing back to him at one time. Grantaire gulped down air and put his arm beneath his forehead, preventing himself a mouth full of sheet again. Someone was talking and from the sing-song cadence he deemed it was Montparnasse.

 

“Are you with us?” Claquesous smacked his shoulder, “Jesus, he's out of it.”

 

Then another voice filled the air, one that made him freeze.

 

“ _Just take him if that's what you want! I don't care what he tells you, I don't want him crawling back here. Anything else?_ ”

 

Montparnasse held the phone a little closer to his mouth as he replied, “That's all.”

 

“ _For God's sake_ ,” it was a rough growl before the line went dead.

 

“Enj?” Grantaire tried to call out but his voice was too frail to carry. He felt like his entire throat was on fire from the inside out, ruined beyond repair. It seemed like he was floating except for the anchor of Babet's knee and hand. Those words...had they been about him? He had chased after Enjolras earlier and had coerced him into the body shot but certainly he hadn't made him angry? He made it his life mission to get under his leader's skin but had he gone too far this time? Should he have not sat on his lap in public? Touched him so freely? Had Enjolras heard his moan of enjoyment and been disgusted by it? Did he know how he felt?

 

Grantaire let out a small sob, his whole body going limp as the weight of the alcohol and drug collapsed what was left of his strength. It felt like a wave crushing over him, more noises falling from his lips as insistent fingers slipped along his belt and unbuckled it. He vaguely felt his pants being tugged down and off his hips and down to thighs, something cold and soft stuffed beneath his belly to can't his body up. Those same fingers eased his legs apart, just a little, and he found himself thinking that he was comfortable this way.

 

A pillow...it must've been a pillow under his belly.

 

Gueulemer looked a little apprehensive from where he was standing, “We won't really... _you_ _know_ , right?”

 

“Don't be such a woman,” Montparnasse pulled the slim tube of slick out of his pocket, “Hmmm. I wonder how far we'll get before the boys find us?”

 

“They're not going to find us,” Babet frowned as he finally got off the artist, “A-Are they?”

 

“Of course they are, you nitwit,” the leader scoffed, kneeling onto the bed to look over the mumbling boy spread out on the bed, “ 'Mer? Hit him with something, will you?”

 

Gueulemer grunted and looked around, walking over to the blinds. He fingered along the adjustment wand before ripping it off with a simple tug. The blonde took step toward the bed and swung down, snapping the plastic across Grantaire's pale back. The boy barely whimpered and his muscles twitched but otherwise he stayed still.

 

“Perfect,” Montparnasse twisted off the cap and tossed it aside, “If he starts to move again hit him. The brat can barely feel anything. Babet, I want you to capture this. Claq, you're next.”

 

He glanced up at the blonde, “And be creative. It'll be good practice for you.”

 

Grantaire legs shifted around as the other man's knees brushed against them. His eyes were blown and a fine sheen of moisture had slicked his body, making him shine in the streetlight. Dark hair, pale skin, it fit right into his usual type. And of course Enjolras, the pompous little prick, had stolen him first. He was going to put his mark on this brat in more way than one by the end of the night.

 

Grantaire couldn't feel much of anything past the sharp jolts going through his jaw. He was grinding his teeth but he couldn't stop, stopping every few seconds only to pick it back up again. Joly had told him that when this happened, be it from alcohol or drugs, to take mental stock. Count what he could feel and make a mental list. He had said it was some sort of concentration trick.

 

He could feel the blanket beneath his hands and cheek, hot from his body heat but still smooth. His neck hurt, that pain sliced through the numbness more than anything else. There was something on his back, a sensation of scraping. Teeth...maybe, it was too far away. A chill touched his fever-hot flesh, just at the small of his back. He slipped away long enough for the faint touch to turn into thick pressure, lower than his back but deeper. He wanted to squirm away from it but his body wasn't listening right now. Something touched his ear, the same something that was probably pressing down into him and making it a struggle to fill his lungs. A new kind of warmth bled through his groin, sending his hips rocking blindly in search of more. It didn't hurt and that was all that mattered.

 

“Ohh, you like that, don't you?” Montparnasse purred into the artist's ear, pushing against the spot that made him slither against the bedspread, “How long has it been since you've been properly fucked, hm? I bet Enjolras can't make you moan like _this_.”

 

Grantaire felt a noise echo through his throat but he couldn't hear it, blood pounding so hard in his ears that it smothered up everything else.

 

Claquesous hesitantly picked a beer bottle up off the floor, the one Grantaire had brought in him with. He dumped out the dregs before holding it up to the light, a smirk starting to break out across his handsome face. He tested its weight before bringing it back over to the bed.

 

Montparnasse saw it and grinned, “Be still my beating heart! So you _do_ know how this works.”

 

“Can I?”

 

“Of course,” Montparnasse carelessly slipped his fingers out of the boy's hot body and wiped them off on the blanket, “What a perfect way to open him up.”

 

He ran his hand down the swell of Grantaire's ass, thumbing just under the cheek, “I'm sure for all his big talk our Enjolras isn't quite packing up to standards. We'll give him something to really moan about.”

 

Babet lowered his camera phone, “Any way I can get a turn with his mouth?”

 

“The more the merrier.”

 

***

 

Joly inquired where Grantaire had been for the past hour and Jehan broke.

 

“I stole your phone!” it was abrupt and loud enough to quiet their group in an instant.

 

“I'm sorry?” Enjolras shot back, confusion battling with irritation.

 

“I-I didn't mean to, I didn't. I mean, I took it, but I didn't know,” tears were filling his eyes, in one beer too many to keep his composure, “He said it would be a joke and I believed him because I'm so fucking _stupid_ and naive like you're always telling me. I didn't want to believe h-he'd-”

 

Jehan broke off into a sob. Feuilly grabbed him around the waist and brought him into his shoulder, taking his weight and casting his eyes at the others. They were all pretty confused, their romantic's words were quickly dissolving.

 

“I'm so stupid,” Jehan clung to his friend, trying to hide his shame and his face within his shirt, “I told Grantaire I loved him but if you love someone you're not supposed to hurt them and that's all I do. God help me, I can't do anything right and-”

 

“Hush,” Feuilly scolded sharply, “Yes you stole Enjolras's phone but what are you going on about? If it's just the phone it's okay, I'm sure he's not mad.”

 

“Jehan?” Enjolras's voice was actually soft as he came up and put a hand on the younger blonde's shoulder, “What else is there?”

 

It took Feuilly carding his fingers through his hair to finally get him to calm down enough to speak. The younger man lifted his head and looked at his leader with wet eyes, the kind that made Enjolras's chest pang in sympathy.

 

“Grantaire got a text while we were outside,” Jehan chewed his lip, tasting salt, “It said to meet him upstairs. It was...it was from you, Enjolras.”

 

“But I didn't-”

 

“Before that girl gave it back to you.”

 

“Jehan,” it was a much harder tone this time, “Who told you it would be a joke? Who did you give my phone to?”

 

“Montparnasse.”

 

The word landed like weights within their hearts, dragging them down into the pits of their stomachs.

 

“He texted Grantaire?” it felt like a death sentence upon his tongue.

 

“Probably.”

 

“I don't like this,” Feuilly let go of the younger man, priorities switching almost visibly, “He's been gone way too long.”

 

“I should've noticed sooner,” Enjolras cursed under his breath, “Feuilly, with me. Find Lesgle and ask him where he keeps his guns. Joly, stay here, I don't want you in a fight. I'll grab someone else and meet you at the stairs.”

 

Jehan's hands fluttered nervous in front of him, “What about me?”

 

Enjolras grit his teeth and didn't reply, his silence telling everything he needed to hear.

 

The orator split off and made headway through the crowd, snatching his left hand man by the elbow and dragging him away from the pretty red head he had been chatting up.

 

“Enj-?”

 

“Who's better with a weapon, you or Courfeyrac?” Enjolras interjected impatiently.

 

Combeferre didn't gape but he sure as hell frowned, “I'm not sure.”

 

“Combeferre!” he snapped.

 

“I am,” the other answered quickly, then calmed his tone, “Courfeyrac is terrible with a gun.”

 

“Come with me.”

 

He led the tight-lipped blonde to the stairs with a hand on his elbow, steering him toward their waiting friends. Lesgle had a briefcase in his hand and a terrified expression on his face. He handed it off to Enjolras before wiping his palms across his pants, like he couldn't bare them.

 

“There's three in there, one clip with each,” he sniffed sharply, “They belong to my uncle and I'm not supposed to touch them but they'll do.”

 

“Thank you, Lesgle, truly,” Enjolras took the case up and started up the steps, “Get Bahorel and have him start suggesting to leave. You might have to clean this house out if it gets rough.”

 

“ 'Gets rough'? What does that mean?” Lesgle called after the three of them, a frantic edge to his voice when they didn't answer, “What does that mean?! You can't start a firefight upstairs, my mother just had it painted!”

 

Once on the second floor the three of them distributed the guns and left the case behind. They were all familiar with the weapons and how to hold them, aim them, fire and keep steady. It was almost professional and any other time that would've scared the political pacifist but right now wasn't the moment for it. Grantaire was probably in some deep trouble and he needed his help, now more than ever.

 

“These are for threatening, not for use,” Enjolras locked his own clip in place, “But they don't need to know that, do they? Search every room.”

 

They fanned out and started pressing their ears to doors, searching for familiar voices. Combeferre found a sheepish couple and Feuilly discovered a boy who had gotten a little too high and was trying to ride it out in the bathtub in the guest bathroom.

 

“Head downstairs and find Lesgle,” Feuilly scolded, hiding the gun behind his back, “Tell him to call you a cab and _go_ _home_ , for Christ's sake.”

 

The boy scrambled to obey, looking like he was about to cry.

 

Enjolras was the one who found the room with a noises they were looking for. Soft whines, laughter, the sound of a bottle thumping on the floor, and the distinctive cadence of Montparnasse giving orders. He whistled lowly and caught his friend's attention, pointedly throwing his chin at the door.

 

Feuilly held up his hand to stop them, voice low, “We have to agree now. Whatever we see in there – it stays between us.”

 

“Heartily agreed,” Enjolras nodded, “Now kick that fucking door down before I rip it apart with my bare hands.”

* * *

**I hope that pleased everybody. I couldn't bring myself to write anything rougher and I definitely didn't want to break his fingers or anything (*nod* You know who I'm talking about, you violent minxes, I love you all). I tried not to make it too squick-worthy. THIS is what the muses wanted and I'm pretty happy with it. I'm about a third of the way done with the next chapter). Hope you guys like it! Read and review, if you want :)**

**The photoset for this chapter is[here ](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/55528714123/look-at-those-marks-claquesous-whistled-lowly)if you want to check it out**

 


	13. When Everything Goes Wrong (Right?)

With a great heave and a grunt, Feuilly drove back and slammed his heel along the wood beside the lock. It groaned and gave way, the doorknob cracking against the wall. The above-head lights were off and it took a long moment for their eyes to adjust but their guns were trained on the figures in the room. There were five men in all; Montparnasse, his crew, and a prone figure spread out on the guest bed. Babet and Gueulemer had their pants undone with softening erections tenting their underwear, Claquesous was shoving away his phone. The crew was staring at them, only Montparnasse seeming unphased or unsurprised by their sudden entrance. He glanced at the guns with an air of boredom.

 

“Violence?” the dark haired man rolled his eyes, “How obvious.”

 

“Grantaire?” Enjolras called, getting a brief movement from the man on the bed. Dark curls, a pale expanse of back with a few new reddened marks upon it. His pants were bunched at the bottom of his thighs, hips hiked up and legs parted enough to reveal a shiny bit of slick between his cheeks. It was his friend there was no doubt of that, face hidden in the blanket and fingers clinging weakly to the material. The sight of it dropped a red veil over his eyes, sending a white-hot rage through his veins that fueled his determination.

 

“Everyone step away,” Enjolras made a point of thumbing the safety off his gun, his boys following suit, “Button your pants and get the _fuck_ away from him.”

 

The harsh word struck something within the _Patron-Minette_ and they actually obeyed, even their leader. It was slow going but eventually they were as far away from the bed as they could be, three of them with weapons pointed at them. Enjolras trained the barrel of his gun on the sweet spot between Montparnasse's eyes, begging for an opportunity to squeeze the trigger.

 

“I want all your phones and cameras,” Combeferre demanded, glancing at the blonde for the nod that came with his orders, “Single file line out the door. Empty your pockets.”

 

Gueulemer was the only one who looked worried, his usual intoned voice laced with nerves, “You're not going to call the police?”

 

“They wouldn't dare,” Montparnasse announced much too easily, his trademark smirk coming across his handsome face, “Not if they know what's good for them.”

 

“There's no need for cops,” Enjolras spat out venomously, “Consider this a postponed street justice.”

 

Combeferre and Enjolras exchanged a brief look that said a hundred things they couldn't out loud. They instinctively knew that involving the cops would only result in humiliating their Grantaire, not to mention that the boys would get off with a slap on the wrist and a fine. Then they'd seek revenge and who knows what would happen if there was a next time? No, if they hoped to avenge Grantaire's honor in any way it would be out in the shadows where their connections wouldn't help him.

 

They must've known this but at the moment they didn't seem to care.

 

Babet came up first and turned out his pockets, spare change and a phone coming out of them. With Feuilly's barrel trained on his chest, he let Combeferre pat him down.

 

“Nice nose,” Feuilly commented with a nod, “ 'Taire give it to you, you fuck?”

 

“Little bitch barely put up a fight,” Babet scoffed.

 

“Get out of here.”

 

Gueulemer was next and he only had his phone. He didn't say a word but there was something akin to relief on his brow.

 

Claquesous came with up a phone and a camera, a flush on his cheeks.

 

“I hope you're ashamed,” Combeferre lectured sternly, putting the devices in his pockets, “The position you'll be in one day is an honorable one and I hope you put these fools behind you long enough to make good of it. There are those who would kill for you pedigree and here you _squandering_ it.”

 

“What do you know about me?” Claquesous demanded hotly.

 

“I know that you were once a happy kid who used to come over to Courfeyrac's house and help his mother wrap Christmas presents,” Combeferre confessed with a heavy heart, “And I know you were meant for so much more than this.”

 

The blonde's face collapsed in agony, realization swirling in his eyes.

 

“Don't ever come near us again or I won't hesitate to beat the living hell out of you,” Combeferre shoved him out the door, “You've wasted any chances of redemption with me.”

 

Claquesous stared back almost mournfully but one look from Montparnasse had his head snapping forward and his feet moving double time toward the stairs. The bright-eyed leader came up and made a show of huffing and tossing his phone into the academic's hands.

 

Enjolras's muzzle never left the ravenette, handsome face lined in his anger, “One night...not long from now...I'm going to make you bite a curb for this. Whatever you did to him will come double on you. You and your boys aren't safe, Montparasse, don't think that for a minute.”

 

“I'd like to see you make good on those threats, _Apollo_ ,” Montparnasse's voice was pure silk over steel. Enjolras stepped forward and he was a scant few inches from the gun pressing right against the man's forehead. His trigger finger itched so badly and the other man looked so damn casual, so _at ease_. It was enough to make him sick to his stomach. Half of him was highly aware of the murmuring boy on the bed but the other half was screaming for justice, his usually tightly-capped rage trying to claw its way out of his skin to tear his rival apart.

 

Montparnasse was slowly turning out his pockets, never looking away from the blonde, “He was so sweet for me.”

 

“Shut up!” Enjolras demanded, praying the others didn't see the wetness stinging his eyes as Grantaire made a pained noise from the bed, “Just _shut up_ , you bastard.”

 

“He was all warm and pliant, like butter,” Montparnasse laughed a little almost to himself, a gaiety tinkling in the sound, “If I didn't like my meat all colored up, I would worry about him sniffing after me. I think he might be carrying a torch f-”

 

“Get out.”

 

Montparnasse pulled a face and shrugged but his retreat was rather quick.

 

“We've got the door,” Combeferre sounded a bit breathless, bile in the back of his throat from the whole ordeal, “I'll call Joly. You just – just - ”

 

Enjolras handed over his gun, nodding silently. He wasn't as quick as he wanted to be toward the bed but he had a hard time restraining himself, fingertips trembling from the rush of adrenaline. He wanted to simultaneously gather Grantaire up in his arms and break every bone in Montparnasse's body. He could chase the man down, he _could_ , but his friend needed him right now.

 

“ 'Taire? Can you hear me?” Enjolras put a knee on the bed, slow so as not to scare him, “What happened?”

 

“Why?”

 

It was quiet, a rasping whisper accompanied by a small bounce of curls that meant Grantaire was conscious and hiding his face. Combeferre talked quietly on his cell before disappearing out the door, telling Feuilly that he had to grab Joly's medical bag out of his car.

 

“Why what?” Enjolras slid sheet over his friend's lower half to try and preserve some of his dignity, the other's shirt was gone and he was bare from shoulder to knee. His body was slick but shivering like he was cold. He didn't know what was wrong with him but Joly would.

 

“He s-said you...you let them...” Grantaire was gasping like he couldn't catch his breath, “You gave me...over. Heard you.”

 

“Shh-sh, please, just concentrate on breathing,” Enjolras's mind snapped up quick on the other's words, “Whatever they told you was a lie. If you mean that phone call I wasn't talking about you. Don't you dare think on it, not for a second.”

 

“D'ou let 'em?” Grantaire was trying to get his arms beneath him but the blonde urged him to stay still, “D'ou tell 'em they could...?”

 

He broke off in a groan.

 

The older boy laid a hand on his shoulder, “I would never.”

 

Grantaire went boneless under his palm, limp with relief but breath still coming in hard puffs.

 

Enjolras had never felt quite so helpless in his entire life.

 

Joly showed up less than a minute later and all the blonde could do was stare at him and beg the words, “Help him.”

 

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Joly cursed, looking his friend over before the doctor in him kicked in, “Pull his shorts up but take his jeans down, I need a proper look at him.”

 

With the calculated measure of a soldier taking command, Enjolras kept his eyes averted modestly and did as he was told. Joly was taking Grantaire's pulse and trying to get him to come around again, whispering his name and moving his head to the side to see him clearly.

 

“They did a number on his face,” Joly looked over every inch of his friend, testing all his fingers for breaks and going down his sides to check each rib, “I don't feel any fractures. No bumps, no splinters, nothing broken that I can tell. Nothing fatal, at least not in his structure. There's no give where there shouldn't be. It's okay to move him. Help me turn him on his back.”

 

Grantaire cried out as he was turned, face contorted in pain and dripping with sweat. His hair and boxers were saturated, every bit of him damp. He looked more miserable than he'd ever seen.

 

“ 'Ly?” Grantaire slurred, raven lashes fluttering before a hand shot up and grabbed the medical student by the sleeve, “ 'Ly! 'M so sorry. Didn' mean it. He made me. Didn' wan' it.”

 

Joly laid a hand over his, “Grantaire. I know it's hard right now but you need to tell me what happened. What did you drink? Did they give you anything?”

 

“Beer, pill,” the artist grunted out, blue disappearing behind clenched lids, “Put somethin' insi' me.”

 

“Fuck,” Joly cursed, glancing briefly at the soaked shorts as he realized just what he'd have to do, “Wait, _pill_? What pill?”

 

“Told me not 'ta take it 'gain,” Grantaire was starting to slip away, his face going lax, “Sorry.”

 

“You've taken it before? What was it?” Joly felt his forehead and pulse again, “He's hot. Too hot. What pill was it? What did they make you take?”

 

“X.”

 

The one letter was like a death sentence pouring from his lips.

 

“Not this shit again!” Joly stood up, “Feuilly, come here.”

 

“I can help,” Enjolras assured him.

 

“No offense, Enj, but this is going to get ugly real fast and he's the last person he'd want to see him like this,” the brunette stated, words tripping over themselves as he tried to silently time how long they had before their friend was in real danger. It wasn't enough time to argue over something this stupid.

 

“I don't care,” he protested fiercely, already taking one of the man's arms into his hands, “He's not leaving my sight.”

 

“He wouldn't want-”

 

“It's what _I_ want,” Enjolras hated how selfish that sounded, mouth pressing in a thin line, “I can't leave him, Joly, please don't make me.”

 

He huffed but he didn't want to argue anymore. They lifted Grantaire with difficulty. The man wasn't heavy but he might as well have been asleep, and the way he was trying to curl into himself wasn't helping. Joly wasn't a strong guy but he was struggling.

 

“Let me,” Enjolras took Grantaire into his arms and easily picked him up in a bridal hold, rocking the ravenette into his body to cradle him properly. The artist went with a rattling sigh, on arm draped over his belly while the other managed to come up and lay on the blonde's shoulder.

 

“I told you to breathe,” Enjolras followed Joly out of the guest bedroom and to Lesgle's own, heading toward the connected bathroom, “So just be quiet and listen to Joly, alright? I have you.”

 

The other made a noise against his collarbone, every inch of flesh fever-hot, “Don' drop.”

 

“I won't drop you,” Enjolras held him up a bit closer, bussing an absent kiss across his forehead, “ _Ever_.”

 

Grantaire stared at him for a long moment, clearly confused, before his eyes rolled back into his head and his head lolled. It sent a panicked strip of fear through the protestor.

 

“Joly!”

 

“Put him down, head over the toilet,” Joly instructed, dropping to his knees beside it and helping the blonde lay there friend down, “I'm sorry about this, R. For what I'm about to do and what I have to do after we're done. Please don't be angry.”

 

Joly grabbed the artist's hair and gently tilted his head back only to shove two blunt fingers past the man's lips and as far down his throat as he could.

 

“What the hell!”

 

“Shut up and let me do this!”

 

Enjolras watched silently, arms crossed over his chest to keep from scooping Grantaire back up and just holding him until it all passed.

 

“Everything, R, do it!” Joly ordered, pressing right along the boy's tongue and right into the back of his throat until Grantaire heaved obediently. It sounded like the artist was giving up everything from beneath his stomach and then some. The ravenette let out little whines between gags, fingers clawing uselessly at his friend to stop and at the lid for some sort of leverage.

 

“Make yourself useful and go tell Lesgle to start clearing out the house,” Joly shot a glare at his leader, “I need a minute to make sure he gets up whatever they put in him.”

 

Enjolras reluctantly slipped out of the bathroom, eyes lingering on his friend's trembling form until he absolutely had to look away. When he returned, Grantaire was sitting against the wall with his eyes open and his mouth gaping. He was drawing in long, slow breaths now as Joly cleaned his brow and face with a cool cloth. He was whispering reassurances to the artist, letting his fingers skim through his hair and over his shoulders in an effort to ground him and bring him back.

 

“This happened last time he tried ecstasy,” Joly gestured him over, “He needs to rest and try to sweat it out. Let's get him to Lesgle's room.”

 

Enjolras took the ravenette into his arms again, carrying him with somewhat ease down the hall and into their friend's room. He laid Grantaire out on the blanket and made sure his head was cradled by the pillow, dark lashes fluttering as he slowly let go. Any other time he would be more than overjoyed to hold a mostly-naked Grantaire but at the moment the only happiness he could find was in the man being here and alive.

 

Not unhurt, but alive.

 

Combeferre came back, the other man's dark leather bag in his arms. Joly demanded they gave him some space and started to work over the artist. He cracked open some thin ice packs and laid them along his bruised chest and ribs. Grantaire tried to flinch away but was barked at to stay still and he complied. Joly wrapped the flimsiest one he could find and, making sure it was covered properly, draped it along his friend's damaged throat.

 

“What happened?” Combeferre looked distraught, “X doesn't do this. It's supposed to flood your system with endorphins, right? It makes you happy, doesn't it?”

 

“To do that your brain needs to be listening to the drug,” Joly took Grantaire's temperature before testing his blood pressure, “But some people don't react that way. R's brain doesn't feel the kick, and without a kick there's no rush. Without the endorphins, the side effects of X are too extreme for someone like him to handle.”

 

“ 'Someone like him'?” Enjolras was starting to pace, “What do you mean?”

 

“I _mean_ he's not all that stable to begin with,” Joly took out a clear bottle and a clean syringe, “He has a hard enough time producing regular levels of serotonin without some substance cut with _who knows what_ pressuring his system. Fuck everything. The last time he did this he ended up on a bathroom floor in a club, calling me at two in the morning like an asshole, crying about being on fire. God damn it. I almost wasn't enough for him then and I-”

 

Joly dropped his head, reigning himself in before filling the syringe.

 

Enjolras closed his gaping mouth, “What's that?”

 

“It'll help stop the nausea and lower the fever, it worked pretty well last time.”

 

“Are you sure you should-?”

 

“A hundred things could go wrong right now and I don't need you trying to second guess me!”

 

The blonde was taken aback, “Like what?”

 

“Myocardial infarction or palpitations, hypertension, vasculitis, maybe even cardiotoxicity-”

 

“We're not all medical majors, Jol, can you clear that up a bit more?” Feuilly demanded.

 

“He could boil in his own juices and all I can do is try and get his temp down,” Joly tied off Grantaire's arm before tapping out a vein, sliding the needle in with all the skill he'd paid thousands of dollars to earn, “So don't lord over me right now. I feel like I'm going to faint and R needs me.”

 

Combeferre rubbed a hand over his eyes, “I'll go get some water.”

 

The medical student looked up with a weak smile, “Thanks.”

 

With Grantaire out all they could do was wait. Feuilly disappeared to help Lesgle clean up the mess the party goers had made, replaced by Eponine. Courfeyrac had taken one step into the room and his heart had audibly broken, tears filling his wide eyes before he excused himself.

 

“ 'Ponine?” came out on the puff of a breath.

 

Even more than half asleep, Grantaire could smell his best friend's perfume and turned his head toward her direction. Eponine knelt down on the floor by the bed and cupped Grantaire's clammy fingers between her hands, dropping kisses across the scratched up knuckles.

 

“He must've fought back,” Joly observed, finally spotting the defensive wounds on his friend's fingers, “He probably got a few good hits in before the X flooded him.”

 

“I should've been with him,” Eponine sniffed, guilt striking her hard enough to put tears in her eyes, “I was fooling around with that stupid transfer student and I forgot all about him. I saw Montparnasse and the others, I remembered what they promised, but I didn't think – I didn't know - ”

 

“None of did, Eponine, don't blame yourself,” Enjolras assured her, standing just a few feet behind him. Her head slowly tilted back toward the blonde, dark eyes searing his with their intensity.

 

“Where were you?”

 

“What?”

 

“Where. Were. You?” Eponine bared her stark white teeth at him, “When this happened?”

 

“I was downstairs with everyone else,” he narrowed his own eyes at her accusing stare, “Are you implying that I let this happen?”

 

Eponine seemed to realize herself, quick temper fading, “No...no, of course not. This was Montparnasse and his little bastards.”

 

“If I could but get my hand around his scrawny throat...” Enjolras took a deep breath, “What about his neck, Joly?”

 

“Heavy bruising. He'll be a hundred different colors in two days,” Joly wrapped a cloth around one of the smaller icepacks, draping it over the darkening hand mark on his friend's skin, “He'll be raspy for a while but it's nothing his brother hasn't done to him before.”

 

“That bastard's done this?”

 

“Just about as bad,” he glanced at the blonde, “And please stop acting so surprised.”

 

“It's not like you've ever told me any of this!”

 

“It's not like you've ever asked!” Eponine shouted back, a look of surprise coming over both their faces.

They looked away from one another, the tension hanging heavy between them like weighted thread.

 

“What are you two doing? I can hear you from the hall!” Combeferre stormed in, shooting them both a rather nasty look, “Are you seriously doing this _now_? You've had weeks to sort out this whole I-like-Grantaire-more thing and you choose to do it after he's been hurt? What friends you are!”

 

They looked appropriately sheepish.

 

Combeferre dug his tongue into his teeth to try and keep his voice down, this time speaking much softer, “You both care about him, I understand that. But right now we need to be strong and sure for him.”

 

The door cracked open again, a red-eyed blonde stepping inside.

 

“Grantaire?” Jehan's bit down hard on his lip, heading toward the bed to be with the other, “Oh God, look what they did to you!”

 

“It's nothing compared to what I'm going to do to you!” Enjolras snagged the boy by the collar and dragged him back out the door, throwing him against the railing in the hall. The banister was the only thing stopping him from falling into the downstairs living room. He grabbed the younger man's throat and shoved him back until he bowed over the handrail, his own lips curled in a snarl he couldn't stop.

 

“Did you get a good look?” Enjolras seethed, keeping his hold strong so as not to let him slip, “Did you see just what you've done? You dealt with the devil and _this_ is what you got!”

 

“I didn't know!” Jehan pleaded breathlessly, trying to pry the older man's hand off his throat but failing, “Please, Enjolras!”

 

“They could've killed him!” Enjolras shook him hard enough to make him yelp, “You naive _child_! Don't you understand what you've caused? They wouldn't have gotten him alone if you'd just stayed loyal and kept Montparnasse from getting into your head. Why did you do it? Tell me!”

 

Jehan shook his head, refusing to admit it.

 

“Whatever it was, I hope it was worth it,” Enjolras tightened his grip, “I hope you got everything you wanted out of it. Because if you ever pull something like this again I swear to God I will throw you off this and let you break your back. Do you understand?”

 

He nodded frantically.

 

“For all your talk of love and care for Grantaire, you sure have a contemptable way of showing it,” he looked over the boy in obvious disgust, “Sniveling when you thought him gone, waiting so long to seek him out. What a petty, overbearingly childish flame you have for him. If you confessed to him with half the amount of bravery I've witnessed tonight, I would've rejected you too.”

 

Enjolras slowly let go of the younger man, watching him rub at his neck and regain his balance with only minimal regret for letting loose on him so badly.

 

“W-What are you going to do to me?” the boy was practically quivering as he tried to make himself smaller in the face of his leader.

 

“How dare you think of yourself when our friend is lying in there?” Enjolras hissed in disgust, “I can't believe it.”

 

“Are you sure?” Jehan kept his green eyes on the floor from defiance and cowardice, “Because you're _very_ good at only caring about yourself when it comes to him.”

 

“I already had a pissing contest with Eponine, I will _not_ have one with you,” Enjolras jabbed a finger toward the poet, “Don't you presume to know what I feel or think in the matter of our Grantaire.”

 

An honest shock came over the younger man's face.

 

“Go home.”

 

“What?”

 

“You heard me!” Enjolras repeated impatiently, “Find Courfeyrac, I want you both to leave for now. Grantaire will call you if he wants you. He doesn't need to be crowded right now.”

 

“I'm more his friend than you are!”

 

“If you stay in my sight for one more moment, I will personally throw you down those stairs, drag you back up by your hair, and then throw you down them again,” Enjolras explained with all the patience he could muster, “Are we clear?”

 

Jehan nodded with a clenched jaw.

 

“Go.”

 

Enjolras walked back in the room, shutting the door behind him with a great sigh. Eponine was standing in the corner with her mobile cradled to her ear, talking quickly to someone on the phone. From her sharp, professional tone she assumed it was her boss. If it was her deadbeat foster parents she just wouldn't have answered. After something like a minute she hung up and looked much worse for wear. She came up to him and leaned into his personal space, breath warming his jaw as she started to speak.

 

“They need me at work,” she confessed, “No one else will come and God damn it, I need the money. Stay with him for me.”

 

Enjolras nodded and her shoulders sagged.

 

“ 'Taire?” Eponine beseeched softly, taking her place by the bed once more and leaning down to kiss his cheek, “I'm going to go. I'll call you the moment I'm off shift. I love you dearly.”

 

The only response she got was a brief touch to her hand, eyelids twitching at the sound of her voice.

 

“Text me if it gets worse.”

 

“I will,” Joly promised, “Go on. He'll rest here until he wakes up and then we'll drive him home. If I think he has to go to the hospital, I'll call you myself.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Eponine took her leave with one last lingering look at the orator.

 

Obviously Enjolras had something to prove amongst his friends when it came to Grantaire's well-being. He replaced the woman by his friend's side, sitting on the bed and taking one of his hands. He stroked his thumb across the still-hot skin, hoping to convey his compassion. But even that feeling came hard to him. He was so used to hiding himself behind carefully constructed walls and encasing his stronger emotions in bulletproof glass that normal things like profound sympathy and worry for another other than the Patria was difficult to show. He must've looked so cold to Joly and Combeferre, arguing and stone-faced while their friend laid prone on the bed with slowing breaths and a fever that almost burned them to touch.

 

Lesgle came in, leaning against the wall and slowly sliding down until he could sit on the floor, “Shit.”

 

“Yeah,” Combeferre leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed over his chest as the exhaustion of the day and all the beer he'd taken in finally hit him. He tossed Enjolras a heavy water bottle and it was easily caught and laid on the mattress.

 

Joly cleared his throat, “Do you guys remember last year when I thought I was diabetic?”

 

“You mean last week?” Lesgle teased light-heartedly.

 

“I swore my glucose levels were up after fasting and no one could tell me otherwise,” Joly shot at him, though there was a faint smile on his face, “But last year, Grantaire was the only one I told. I went over to his house and brought everything from my lancets to my meter so I could test myself every two hours. I needed data but I just couldn't do it, I couldn't stick myself. Something about the way it sounded and the sharp pain, the thought of a needle jabbing into me...it was too much.”

 

Joly took the artist's other hand, “So R takes it from me and sticks himself, just like that. He told me it didn't hurt at all. I didn't believe him but he talked me into it. For three days, every two hours, Grantaire would jab himself in the finger before I did. It helped so much and he...his fingertips bruised so badly we had to ice them.”

 

The student rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes, hiding the tears growing there, “He couldn't sketch for a week without hurting.”

 

“If we're sharing...” Combeferre started lowly, “There was a week where I'd gotten so sick I couldn't leave bed. Jol here stayed with me but I didn't really have someone to get my homework. Every night Grantaire brought me my assignments and notes from the day. I assumed he'd gotten it from some mutual friends but later I found out he went to every single one of my classes and sat through them. He took all those notes himself. I'll admit I nearly threw a fit until Jehan told me that not only had he gone to mine but his own. He took two school-loads just to keep me up to speed. I never asked him and he never admitted to it. Gratitude seemed so cheap for something so important to me.”

 

Enjolras felt pressure to say something but his mind went blank. When he wasn't drunk or throwing some sort of rebellious fit, Grantaire was overwhelming kind and did a dozen small things in a day for him that no one would notice. Lately it's just been uplifting texts and casual inquires about his day, but before it was things he'd never thought of. Grantaire seemed to know exactly when he needed coffee or tea, he knew what kind of pastries he liked and always made sure to grab some when their meetings ran long, he followed every order (after a healthy fight), and crafted some of the most beautiful imagery a cause group had ever put out on their flyers and posters. He was always laughing, teasing, making him think, making him react. Grantaire was so good at keeping him... _human_.

 

Grantaire was the only one he yelled at, the only one that had made him laugh so hard he'd been reduced to tears. Hell, he was the only one he'd ever texted in the middle of a sleepless night just to see if someone out there in the world was having the same busy-minded problem he was. The artist was bright and dark at the same time and he got under his skin.

 

Enjolras looked down at his friend with new eyes, seeing him for what he truly was.

 

Brilliant.

 

“No one provokes me quite like him,” Enjolras finally admitted.

 

“We know,” Combeferre tisked.

 

They waited in relative silence. It was nearly an hour before Grantaire started to rouse, another ten before he even opened his eyes. Not that Enjolras was timing.

 

“R?” Joly shined a small flashlight into his eyes, testing his pupils, “Can you tell me where you're at?”

 

It took way too long for him to answer, pink tongue trying to wet his lips enough to speak. Joly and Enjolras sat him up, the medical student taking the water bottle and putting it to his friend's mouth. Grantaire drank gratefully, his cheeks just a little less red than before and his body cooled from what it was an hour ago. They laid him back down when he'd taken more than half. He looked better, that was for sure.

 

“At Lesgle's house?” it was raspy but it wasn't slurred like before.

 

“Yeah,” Joly checked his temperature again and sighed in relief before laying two fingers on his wrist to check his heart rate, “What's the last thing you remember?”

 

“Uh,” the ravenette was busy testing his fingers and taking big breaths to judge the pain in his chest, “Talking to Jehan...coming upstairs. I got a text from Enjolras, and when I got here it was 'Parnasse and the others. They...”

 

He cringed hard.

 

“Just let it come back slowly. Don't panic because I need you to try and take big breaths for me. And keep the ice packs on, you're pretty bruised up,” he had his stethoscope in his sears and the flat end dancing over Grantaire's chest with each breath to check for fluid or rattling, “Give a number for pain.”

 

Grantaire tried to obey but his heart was shaking in his chest, “Maybe seven?”

 

“Do you want a painkiller?”

 

“Can I just have one?”

 

“One and a half,” Joly packed his stethoscope away and pulled out a bottle of pills to replace it, thankfully he had some pre-split, “Careful.”

 

He helped the artist swallow them with a few more gulps of water.

 

Enjolras couldn't take it any longer, “Will he be alright? Do we need to take him to the hospital?”

 

Grantaire's eyes darted to him, shock written all over his expressive face, “E?”

 

“Yeah,” he dropped a soft smile toward the dazed ravenette, “Joly?”

 

“He's nowhere near normal but he's not on the fast-track to fatal anymore,” the student seemed relieved, though there was still a pinch to his brow, “His respiration should return to normal in a few hours and his fever has mostly broken. I think he'll be alright.”

 

“What are you doing here?” Grantaire sat up on his elbow with a little wobble, staring down his body, “Why the hell am I naked?”

 

The artist paused, eyes falling shut, “The X. How bad was the fever?”

 

“Bad.”

 

“Was I grinding my teeth?”

 

“Oh yeah.”

 

“That's probably why it hurts,” Grantaire flexed his jaw experimentally, “I feel like someone stabbed the back of my throat.”

 

“That might have been me.”

 

He cracked a shaky smile, “Thanks.”

 

Joly handed him a rag wet from the bottle of water, “Here.”

 

Grantaire cleaned off his face and neck, knocking off the ice pack. He frowned at it before he recalled just how bad his neck was hurt, each swallow reminding him of Montparnasse's unforgiving grip.

 

“Can you still feel the drug?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Tell me,” Joly encouraged lightly, still concerned as to how much was still left in his friend.

 

“My teeth hurt and I'm really tired,” Grantaire kept stealing glanced at Enjolras, shy under his concerned gaze, “I feel kind of...”

 

“Kind of what?”

 

“Cut open.”

 

“That's natural, remember?” Joly encouraged him to lie down again, putting the ice pack back over his neck, “Last time you told me about your mom and dad, things you wouldn't normally say. You'll feel vulnerable until you can sleep it off.”

 

“I remember them beating the living crap out of me,” Grantaire was frowning strongly as he tried to recall everything, “I remember the phone call, and you telling me it wasn't true. I believed everything they said.”

 

“You were susceptible, X does that to you. Just like it makes you over-sharing. Which is why you should just stick to facts right now. No need for you to get all embarrassed later.”

 

“But I _really_ believed it,” Grantaire flushed up all over again.

 

Joly was quick to put a hand to his forehead, “Are you okay?”

 

“He's holding my hand.”

 

They all immediately looked to Enjolras, who was indeed still touching his hand. It was a simple touch, palm cupped over the other's. Their fingers weren't even interlaced. Now it felt like a brand. Just when he went to pull back, Grantaire squeezed his fingers.

 

“Don't,” he rolled his head toward the blonde, “I-I like it.”

 

Enjolras relaxed his touch, he could feel Joly's glare, “I told you he wouldn't want you here.”

 

“I do,” Grantaire whined as he tried to sit up on his elbows again and failed, “Just didn't think you'd stay.”

 

“Don't you dare hold this against him later,” Joly demanded quietly.

 

“I would never,” Enjolras protested adamantly, “I'm starting to doubt your opinion of me.”

 

“It's not you,” Lesgle spoke up, “It's you in regards to _him_.”

 

Enjolras ran his thumb along his friend's hand once more, pressing down hard enough to make him feel it, “I guess I've really messed things up.”

 

“No, no,” Grantaire started to explain, words dying when he tried to sit up completely. He let out a squeak of sorts, eyes widening so that every speck of blue was visible. Joly recognized it for what it was and knew he couldn't put it off a moment later.

 

“I know this is going to be hard,” Joly leaned in closer, voice quiet, “But I need to know if they...if they touched you. I couldn't bring myself to check but it's important, R.”

 

There was a sting deep within him, below his gut. It felt like he'd been jabbed somewhere below the back but under his skin. It felt like...he knew what it was, it was on the tip of his tongue. Why couldn't he remember? The damn drug was still making his brain all fuzzy. His heart was practically bleeding from the overwhelming emotions coursing through him. Relief, dread, worry, elation. It was terrifying and just like last time.

 

It hit him like a shock.

 

This was what he felt like last time a guy had pushed into him without enough lube.

 

“What did they do to me?” Grantaire could feel his eyes burning, praying it wasn't true.

 

“Montparnasse implied...the worst,” Joly looked uncomfortable, pulling back to give the man some breathing room, “Apparently when the guys found you it didn't look good.”

 

Grantaire shot up, covering up his face with trembling hands. The X had cruelly left him with intact memories and they were rushing back to him. Montparnasse trying to coax an orgasm out of him, the cold slide of the beer bottle, the things they'd said about wanting to fuck him two at a time. Something about spearing a whore, filling his mouth and ass so he'd be stuffed.

 

Shameful tears spilled from his eyes and slicked his fingers, pathetic choking sounds catching in his sore throat. He could hear Joly trying to comfort him and removing the ice packs but he couldn't tell what he was saying, blood rushing through his ears at a deafening pressure. Fingers pressed under his jaw and he sobbed, half-heartedly batting the hand away and failing.

 

“His heart rate's spiking.”

 

“No shit!”

 

“Fuck. What do we do?”

 

“What if they actually-?”

 

“Oh God.”

 

“Everyone _be quiet_.”

 

His friends voices cut out and his cries became even louder in the room, chest shaking so badly that every bruise upon it ached. Cool hands curled under his thigh and along his back, pulling him up. He caught the scent of that inappropriate cinnamon soap and flew into it, letting himself get pulled into someone's lap. He wrapped his arms around broad shoulders and buried his face in a soft shirt, the strength of the arms coiling around his waist only made him shudder that much harder.

 

“Apollo?”

 

“Shh,” Enjolras reached up and carded his fingers through his friend's hair, marveling at how soft it was. He knew it was self-seeking but he'd been wanting to touch those curls for so long that he couldn't help but take a moment of pleasure in the act. Grantaire was clinging to him with all of his halved strength, burrowing his face into his shoulder while those bare thighs bracketed his own waist. Any other time and this could be enough to cause a leave-the-room problem but his heart was so swamped in grief that the small joy of touching the artist's hair was all he dared to indulge in.

 

He nudged Grantaire's ear, “What did they do?”

 

“No, please don't make me,” the younger man shook his head, fingertips biting into the blonde's back, “I don't want you to know.”

 

“Look at me,” Enjolras eased the other's head back until their faces were close and their eyes could meet, those stormy eyes darker than usual, “Nothing they could ever say or do would make me or any of your friends think less of you. If Eponine could be here, she'd be right where I am.”

 

Grantaire couldn't take the closeness. He buried his head back in the orator's shirt for a few more moments, soaking up his smell and the relative coolness of his skin. He knew he only had a little bit of time left before the man pushed him away and he needed this contact, this comfort.

 

“They used a bottle.”

 

Enjolras held him tighter, heart dropping into his stomach and shattering. He kept his friend closer until his cries became little hiccups, then trailed off to pants and then all together silence. He didn't want to let go, not yet.

 

“E, we really should get him home so he can shower. He needs fluid and bed rest.”

 

Enjolras kept his eyes closed, giving himself just a few more seconds of make-believe.

 

“You said 'Ponine's gone?” Grantaire inquired.

 

“She got called into work.”

 

The artist eased off his lap with his help, sitting down on the bed properly with an arm cradling his ribs.

 

“Can you drive me home?” he was looking anywhere but at him.

 

“Of course.”

 

“Can we go now?” Grantaire curled his legs a little closer to his chest, “I really, _really_ don't want to be here anymore.”

 

Enjolras started to unbutton his shirt, “Here, take this. Lesgle will get you some new pants.”

 

Grantaire hesitantly accepted it, pure gratitude spreading through his eyes. The blonde brushed their fingers deliberately as he passed it over, then stood up and averted his eyes to give him a semblance of privacy.

 

“R, you might be torn,” Joly murmured as softly as he could, “I could check, it will only take a second.”

 

“I can do it,” Grantaire pulled the warm shirt on, his fingers a little slow on rebuttoning it, “I want to go home.”

 

“Grantaire.”

 

“ _Joly_.”

 

“Okay, here,” the medical student rummaged through his bag until he produced a small tube of unlabeled lotion, “Just use this. It'll take out the sting and help any inflammation. Be generous.”

 

“I will,” his eyelids were drooping, “Next time just knock me out and take me home, 'kay? I'm gonna fall asleep on my feet here.”

 

“I'll take you,” Enjolras offered, reaching down to take him up again. Grantaire flailed and looked at him like he'd grown another head. The blonde blushed brightly when he realized what he'd just done.

 

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I...I carried you before.”

 

“Save a man some dignity and a heart attack and just help me up,” Grantaire jested, offering inside.

 

Inside, he was torn between weeping again and rejoicing.

 

*****

 

The streetlights flashed through the car as he took the highway back into the city. Lesgle's family lived on the edge of the city near a small patch of woods, it would be a few miles until they got anywhere close to home. He had the windows up and the heat on to keep out the crisp night air. It was almost late enough to be considered early but the sky was an inky black dotted sparingly with bits of light.

 

Enjolras looked over at his companion. Grantaire was fast asleep in the reclined seat, the blonde's spare jacket draped over him like a blanket. He'd put up a protest but the moment he'd put the seat back he'd gone out like a light. Before they'd left Joly had cornered him and told him that it'd be normal for him to nap on the way home and even after.

 

“ _Stay with him until he wakes up. He'll be disorientated and dehydrated. If you leave, call someone else to come over.”_

 

“ _I'll stay with him.”_

 

Enjolras wasn't sure he could walk away if he tried, not with that sweet look upon his friend's sleeping face. His pale skin caught every flash of light to glow in pulses, night-spun lashes fluttering delicately as he slept. Hopefully he was dreaming something sweet to chase off the reality he'd just suffered. Grantaire had seen so much hate and suffering, it was a shame he'd suffered such a barbaric act. Those bastards would pay, even if Enjolras had to do it himself.

 

“You deserve better than this,” Enjolras tightened his grip on the steering wheel, “Better than what I've given you. It's not fair that everyone's been seeing you - _really_ seeing you – for years and I've only just begun. I found you, I encouraged you to come to meetings. Why couldn't I see it?”

 

He slammed his hands down on the leather, regretting it after it made a loud _whack._ But the artist remained fast asleep, bruises ever darkening across his cheek and jaw.

 

“God made me out of a selfish mold, didn't he?” Enjolras sighed, resting his head along the back of the seat, “I don't know what to say to you when you're awake but I can't shut up when I'm talking to myself. I believe you'd find humor in that.”

 

He looked to Grantaire again, a faint smile curling his lips, “I admire that about you, you know. The way you can laugh at almost anything...it's endearing.”

 

The intense blue gaze went back to he road, “More than.”

 

*****

 

Grantaire woke up in layers, like one would meditate but in reverse order. Like counting back to ten, each breath taking him that much higher up. He became aware in bits and pieces, starting with the shirt across his chest and then the heavenly smell that came from it. He groaned and slapped a hand down on his collar, dragging it up until he could press it to his nose. Then came the bruises, like the one he'd just hit on his neck. He groaned for a whole different reason as sharp ache shot down into his spine.

 

“Where...?”

 

Was that his voice? Jesus, he sounded like he'd been gargling gravel or hot-boxed an entire carton of cigarettes. He tried to cough but the roughness was still there. He flexed his fingers and moved his arms around, stretching to see just how sore he was. Gods above, it was awful. A stiffness was working through his limbs. It was no incentive to get up. But he felt clean, his hair was still damp and curling at his temples. He could remember the hot warmth of a shower, the mint and scrape of brushing his teeth, the swish of water across his tongue, a sting soothed by his own clumsy fingers, then being tucked into bed by capable hands. He must've been home. Someone took him here, shoved him in the shower, but anything before that was still blurry.

 

How did he get there? The last thing he remembered-

 

“Apollo?” he called as strongly as he could, rolling his head back and cracking open his eyes. Yes, he was at home, laid out in his drunk nest. His shoes and socks were gone but he was still dressed in the near-fitting pants Lesgle had given him and Enjolras's button-up. That thought sent a nervous flutter through his belly.

 

“I'm here.”

 

Grantaire leaned his head back a bit more until he spotted the blonde. Enjolras was holding a canvas in front of him, those all-knowing eyes dancing over every inch like he was trying to memorize its image. From this angle he could only see some splotches of royal purple along the edges. Combined with that curious expression on the older man's face and he knew exactly what he was looking at.

 

“Put that down!” Grantaire wobbled to his feet once he realized his painting was gone from the high easel, “Be careful, I worked really hard on that one!”

 

“I won't hurt it,” Enjolras replied distractedly, “Is this supposed to be me?”

 

Grantaire bristled at the phrase 'supposed to be', “You were never _supposed_ to see it.”

 

Enjolras's brows shot to his hairline, disappearing into the waves of gold, “So it is?”

 

“Yes, alright, it's you,” Grantaire's arms crossed over his chest defensively, the ruddy coloring on his cheeks from more than sleep now, “It's how I see you, at least. Did you drive me here?”

 

“I did.”

 

“Did I shower and, uh, lotion up like Joly said?”

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

“Huh,” he glanced down at his body, “I dressed myself and everything.”

 

That got the blonde to look away from the painting, but only long enough to say, “Of course. What kind of man do you think I am? I made sure you had your pants on before I helped you. You'd be in bed if it wasn't so inconveniently up a ladder.”

 

“You had no trouble getting up that ladder for my personal painting.”

 

Enjolras turned his head away to focus on the image again, “Is it finished?”

 

“I believe so,” he replied with a different kind of ache, “I think I finished it the other day.”

 

“Tell me about it,” Enjolras demanded, setting the canvas on a lower easel so they could both look at it, “Come here and show me what I'm supposed to see.”

 

“It's not that deep or anything,” Grantaire grumbled as he obeyed, shuffling over to stand beside his leader, “The hair was supposed to just be gold but the red looked so good with it, like Roman capes with blonde warriors. Then I changed my mind and painted over it, that's why it looks kind of gaudy and tarnishy. The face is...shadowed to give contrast to the eyes. I couldn't get the color right. I tried for days but I eventually gave up and settled for this steamy look.”

 

“They're blazing,” the other sounded a bit awed.

 

“They're supposed to be,” Grantaire shifted his weight, the lotion was still working and the sting of his attack was only a dull ache, “I just blended up some golden orange and crimson and just made...you know, smoke trails to imply that they smolder. It was a second choice but I think it worked. It would've disappeared into the background but my brother spilled purple on the canvas so I just rolled with it. See how the edges of the background don't actually touch him? That's just charcoal between them, it's kind of like a shade. You know, a border. Like he's above it.”

 

His jittery ramble finally rolled to a stop, “You...you hate it, don't you?”

 

“No,” Enjolras breathed, tracing his fingers along the edge of the portrait, “Far from it. Is it really supposed to be me?”

 

“Oh my God. _Yes_. Can we get past that embarrassing part?”

 

“There's no reason to be embarrassed,” Enjolras assured him much too easily, “It's amazing. I can't believe it's me. I look so...so...”

 

“Undeniably beautiful?” Grantaire supplied without thinking, gripping himself even harder as the words escaped, “I was going for that. Beautiful, celestial, mysterious-”

 

“Unattainable,” that handsome face looked positively devastated.

 

Grantaire caught his eyes and tried to smile it off but he was sure it looked more sarcastic than anything else, “Yeah, I was going for that too.”

 

“I know I come off as unkind or overbearing, but this...to know you see me like this...” Enjolras actually looked upset, brow crinkled up and full lips pursed in a cross between a pout and a frown, “Do you think me so cold and detached?”

 

“Sometimes, yeah,” the artist explained, arms coming down only so his hands could wring and thread together fitfully, “I mean, that's not _all_.”

 

Enjolras seemed pained, “What else?”

 

Grantaire gave a sharp sigh, “Seriously?”

 

“Deadly,” those eyes burned him, “What else is there to me?”

 

“I can't really describe it. I've thought about it enough, I should have it down to a science by now, but I don't,” Grantaire wet his lips a few times, an image of Enjolras giving him bottle after bottle of water to chug flashing through his mind, “You come off as unattainable and detached but then you crack, like when you drop hot marbles into cold water. It's sudden and you don't really expect it. But when you break open like that you let these warm rays of light through and they're glorious.”

 

He ran a hand through is hair, mussing the curls, “You're just guarded.”

 

Enjolras couldn't refute that.

 

“I only painted that because I wanted to try and capture your essence but it's harder than you'd think,” Grantaire's waved a hand toward him, “It was tough enough trying to capture your eyes, let alone your solemnness.”

 

Enjolras's face was tight with forced calm, “You think me solemn, then?”

 

The younger man shrugged, “It's not an awful thing to be when you're a revolutionary.”

 

Something changed in Enjolras's demeanor. His shoulders squared off and he half turned away, face towards the painting. His hands balled into fists by his hips, tendons standing out strong along his tan skin.

 

“I'm marble,” Enjolras stated under his breath, voice growing stronger with each word, “I am...cracks and sunlight. I'm a revolutionary, I'm Apollo, I'm the _fearless_ _leader_. I am a shadowed face who can't be touched!”

 

He whipped around to face the darker haired man, anger chasing injustice across his face in a way that made his strong features stand out even more, “Why am I this way?”

 

Grantaire gaped dumbly, unable to respond.

 

“I know what I must come off like, I know that I'm – I'm harsh and standoffish at times,” Enjolras snarled, blue eyes cutting back to the painting like it was offending him, “I have to be, don't you understand? What I do requires all my strength and if I falter for one moment things like tonight happen! If I give for just a second, people get hurt!”

 

He grit his teeth so hard the other could almost hear it, “So many people have told me that I'll die a martyr but that implies I ever lived outside the cause.”

 

“Enjolras?”

 

“For once I want someone to realize that my mind and life are for France but my heart is not made of stone!” Enjolras surged forward and grabbed the ravenette by the shoulders, close to pleading, “It cares like any other but it's out of practice. It's just flesh and blood.”

 

His gaze swept over Grantaire's body, sending a hot flush through the younger man, “And so am I.”

 

Enjolras's mouth crashed upon Grantaire's own, more an attack than a real kiss. But he was desperate and would take what he could get. If this was what kissing his Apollo was like, he wanted it forever. It was demanding and dry, imprinting him with the shape of his full mouth. Grantaire moaned into the contact, hardly able to react properly with the rush of lightness going up through him. His fingers were light and his head started to float, heart beating so fast it might as well have been standing still. He felt like hummingbirds looked.

 

Enjolras ripped away just as fast, hands still clamped upon the artist's shoulders. Grantaire felt a goofy smile come over his face but he refused to open his eyes, savoring the moment for what it was. Their first kiss. But from the blonde's soft curse, it could've very well been their last. He'd just opened his eyes when the older boy sent his world into ruin, bringing the little fantasy crashing down upon his head.

 

“I didn't want this,” Enjolras confessed, face drawn with regret.

 

“Then you shouldn't have done it!” Grantaire went cold all over, slapping the man's hands off him, “You can't just kiss whoever you want and then you say you didn't want it, you bastard!”

 

The sharp tone almost covered up the sound of his heart starting to crack, threatening to shatter and burst all over the floor. Enjolras made a sound of distress before coming up again, one hand coming up to grab Grantaire by the thick of his hair and drag him close. Their foreheads came together and the younger man couldn't help but let out a sigh that quickly turned into a whine when he realized this was the let-down. All those years of pining, all that wasted time, it was all coming into perspective. He'd never dared to dream of Enjolras loving him back but he'd never wanted him to know and reject him, to tell him they could only be friends.

 

Because he lived on hope. And without that...what was he? An admirer? A background character in his Apollo's life? Maybe less. No, he couldn't take it. His heart would just give out and he'd die here on the floor at the man's feet, giving his life for love like a good Frenchman.

 

“Don't look at me like that, I beg you,” Enjolras looked just as torn as he did, “I meant I didn't want our first kiss to be like _this_. I didn't want it to be after some bastards touched and tricked you into hating me.”

 

“I could never hate you,” the honest words were all he had.

 

“You should,” the blonde scoffed, “If I hadn't shown you favor they would have never-”

 

“They wanted to hurt you and they were going to do it no matter what,” Grantaire rushed over him, refusing to hear anything like that, “If not me then Courfeyrac, or Jehan. Someone else who loves you.”

 

“Do you?” Enjolras sounded like he was begging for something a whole lot bigger than an answer, “Love me, that is?”

 

“Apollo...” Grantaire chuckled as best he could, trying to breathe mirth into this painfully tense exchange, “If it wasn't for you I'd be rotting away at the bottom of a bottle somewhere. Purposeless. Friendless. Even more pathetic than I am now.”

 

“You're not pathetic,” thick fingers clenched harder in his hair, pulling the roots just enough to show his displeasure, “And I hate when you say things like that. Self-deprecation does not belong on your lips.”

 

The self-proclaimed cynic found himself pushing into the touch, enjoying it more than he probably should've been. But those words sounded so sensual, a hidden meaning by the scolding that had his breath catching for a much better reason. Everything was going so fast...the things Enjolras had admitted to...

 

“But it's there,” Grantaire insisted, “Even you, great Apollo, cannot change that.”

 

The blonde's lips turned down, “You didn't answer me properly.”

 

“When do I ever?” he teased back.

 

“You frustrate me to no end,” Enjolras pulled back abruptly, feet taking him back to the painting so he could glower at its mocking image, “But you always have and this is not the time for it.”

 

He seemed to be coming back to himself and Grantaire felt a pang of disappointment go through him.

 

“Everyone's convinced that this silly infatuation you have for me is something more,” Enjolras was talking to himself now, three fingers digging into his temple to set off the edge of an oncoming headache, “I don't understand it.”

 

“Don't talk like I'm not here!” Grantaire snapped, the blonde turned, “You arrogant asshole. I'm still in the room, you know! To stand there and call what I feel _silly_ is enough to get your ass kicked. God or not, anyone who questions the nature of my feelings for you is begging for a slug in the mouth!”

 

“I shouldn't have come here,” it was uncertainty plaguing his Apollo now, “I should have let one of the others take care of you. This wasn't the night to talk about this but Marius said I'd pick the exact wrong moment and here I am.”

 

Enjolras was walking past him toward the door, “I'll call Joly and wait in the hall. I don't want you alone but clearly I'm only making things worse.”

 

***

 

Enjolras was starting the beginning of a car ride long scolding in his head when he touched the knob, fully planning on standing in the hall like an idiot until he was sure Grantaire could be properly taken care of. Not whatever the hell he was doing. Picking through his stuff, badgering about him feelings, kissing him – oh Christ, he _kissed_ him. It had been rough and closed-lip and nothing like he'd wanted for their first encounter. When he would think of it, it was always romantic and slow. He'd cradle Grantaire's head between his hands and tilt it back, slowly coaxing his lips open with sweet touches until he could taste him properly. Not that savage assault he'd done earlier.

 

What a mess he'd made of things. He'd just started to get his shit together and he'd already managed to fumble and break it to pieces before it even had a real chance to start.

 

“I love your smile.”

 

That statement was abrupt and serious, slicing through any train of thought the orator had been on. Enjolras shut the door with a click, turning back to face his friend. How had he not seen this back then? How beautiful the man was? All those silky raven curls in an unruly mess around his head, that storm-brewing gaze, the hint of beard on his pale skin, the sweetly self-conscious way he held himself. The added fact that the man was in his shirt sent heat through his groin. Even with the darkening bruises under his eyes across his face, he was a sight to behold. How had he ever yelled at him? How had he been so blind?

 

His work was a blinding, jealous mistress.

 

“Sometimes it's those closed, no teeth ones. Your mouth gets really small and it's totally unattractive,” Grantaire waved a hand around his own mouth, “I finally figured out last year that it's because your bone structure's so strong, it's that Greek jaw of yours. But when you let yourself really smile...God, it opens up your whole face and it's like watching the flowers unfurl in the mornings. I love both of them.”

 

Grantaire's words spilled more ardently, shifting on his feet as he started to get into it. It was like he'd been waiting the full two years to let all of it loose.

 

“They're so rare, like perfect wine, but they're worth every drop of effort it takes to bring them out,” it sounded like painfully naked truth, “And your bull-headedness. I love how serious you can get but more than that I love your passion. How can we not put you on a pedestal when you have this natural majesty carved into every inch of you that rivals lions! Whenever you enter a room you steal my breath and force my eyes upon you, all from your stride. And I see dozens of others fall with me. Even Bahorel steals long glances at you when you just sit at the bar. So don't get angry at us for turning you into something greater than you think you are when it's _your_ spell that makes us act so.”

 

A hysterical bit of laughter bubbled up out of the artist.

 

“Shall I go on?”

 

“Please,” Enjolras encouraged lowly, struck by the words. His stomach was knotting itself up but in a good way, like before he gave a speech or when he was close to winning a debate.

 

“You want my creepy, obsessive thoughts? You want the things that everyone makes fun of me for? Fine,” Grantaire took a comical breath, hands fluttering to emphasize as he spoke (more habit than a nervous trait), “The way your hair catches the light is something artists only dream of. It sucks in every speck and reflects a thousand shades of gold and under those shitty high-watt bulbs it can shine this...this burnt umber and then it's a completely new thing to stare at.”

 

He took another breath, cheeks puffing out, “And I'd wax poetry for weeks about your eyes if you'd just tell me what damn color they are! I can't describe them and I wasted two cans of really good paint trying to do so. Whatever color they are, they're...”

 

Grantaire seemed to be running out of steam, trailing off to a stunned sigh.

 

“Every time you look at me - I mean _actually_ look at me, not through me – I think my heart will stop,” he confessed with a confused expression knitting his brow, as if he couldn't believe he was actually saying it, “And when you see me and talk to me like I'm a real person, not a place-filler, I beg it to. I beg time itself to stop so I can keep that moment forever.”

 

He leaned on his knees, stifling a cough and rubbing at his aching throat. Each word was like swallowing a spikey toy jack, pricking up the tender flesh until he hoarse.

 

“You're just...really important, Enjolras,” there was an edge of defeat there as he straightened, “I know you probably wish you weren't but sometimes we just can't help what others make of us. You're the fresh-faced rally leader with a voice like Gabriel's trumpet and I'm just a – a - ”

 

Enjolras tried to say something but every syllable got caught in the back of his throat.

 

“Well, we know what I am,” he shrugged, “A useless liberal arts major with no plans and no real-world experience. Feuilly says so enough behind my back and I've never heard anyone correct him.”

 

Shame colored the blonde's cheeks. He was one of those who never spoke up for him.

 

“Have I plucked every word from you, my Apollo?” Grantaire's grandeur fizzled out to a simple sadness that had his shoulders slumping, “Just as well. I don't wish to hear your disgust of me. I feel so stupid.”

 

The artist's nose scrunched up as he tried not to cry, Enjolras could see the wetness pooling in his eyes and sticking to his lashes.

 

“Combeferre said I should've just stayed quiet but Lesgle told me to just blurt out whatever came to mind, they both knew it was hopeless. I'm sorry, I should've never said anything. Please, Enjolras, don't hit me.”

 

He said the last bit as Enjolras stalked toward him, determination renewed.

 

***

 

Enjolras grabbed the younger man by the collar (it was _his_ shirt, God damn it), nearly-visible sparks dancing between them as he was led back until his shoulders touched the wall. They never once looked away, they couldn't. The same spell that made Grantaire stare at his leader with wonderment was locking their gazes so tightly together they could almost see nothing else besides the rich color of each other's eyes.

 

“I would never lay a hand on you in anger.”

 

Grantaire whimpered under its power, going limp to let the other do whatever he wanted.

 

Enjolras braced his forearm above the slighter man's head, using it to hold his weight as his free hand journeyed up to cup the stubbled jaw. The skin along one side was hot and slightly puffy from the blows he'd taken but the ice had helped. The way he collapsed against the wall showed that his body was already feeling the beating it had taken. Filled with that undeniable fire that powered him through all his speeches, he pressed a thumb down upon the pink bottom lip.

 

Grantaire rolled into the touch, opening his mouth in offering. A silent list of pleas ran through his head, embarrassing enough to burn his ears and be thankful his demi-god was not a mind-reader.

 

_Take it, take it please. Kiss me again, I beg you. Just one more. You can't give me one and stop, it's cruel. Look at me and want me. At least my mouth. Anything. I can be so good. I'll show you I can do something right._

 

“Whatever you're thinking, _stop_ ,” Enjolras ordered, a gentle but firm command that made the artist nod in assent. And with that they were kissing again, a simple swoop-in that connected their lips. It was a real kiss this time, a meeting of lips that quickly became hotter. Firmer, more real. Either could have claimed that attack earlier was more to make Grantaire shut up than anything else but this was an undeniably intimate gesture. It was a slow mapping of mouths. There was an underlying taste of toothpaste and flouride, clean, perfect.

 

Grantaire was trying his best not to swoon into a full faint.

 

“You kiss how I dreamed you would,” Enjolras murmured as they parted, golden lashes laying at half mast, “Generously.”

 

“You dream of me?” he winced at how completely _wrecked_ he sounded.

 

Enjolras felt his heart lurch, thumb dragging a trail through raven curls. This must've been so overwhelming to Grantaire, a long-buried infatuation suddenly coming onto him with less than honorable intentions. But what he'd said earlier, the way he'd described him...it had kindled a lust within him that overwhelmed his morals. At least for the moment.

 

“Oh, 'Taire...you really had no idea?” Enjolras loosened his grip on the other's shirt (still _his_ shirt), running it carefully over his tender ribs, “Of course I've given no inkling. After all this time, we've both been fools. I've been so blind and self-serving, putting your flaws in front of you like a shield to keep myself from seeing the whole picture. I thought your bitter cynicism for everything I cared about would be enough for keeping me from admitting...well, anything to myself.”

 

Grantaire's chuckle was breathy and high-pitched, “You too?”

 

“As you pined over the colors of my hair in Les Amis, I've ranted and raved with nothing more in my head than the thought of that tempting mouth around my cock.”

 

The red in Grantaire's ears spread over his cheeks as he got hot all over, fresh lust blowing his pupils and forcing his lips apart in a harsh gasp. It was too much, those words from his Apollo's mouth made his cock thicken up so fast it made him dizzy. The pain in his heaving chest, the twinge in his lower back a new counterpoint to the heavy ache growing in his groin. His body was confused and more alive than it had ever been.

 

“Saints and martyrs,” Grantaire protested pitifully, cursing how off-kilter he felt, “Y-You can't just _say_ that!”

 

“No?” Enjolras cocked a blonde brow at him, tightening his grip in the younger man's hair once more, “I've fantasized about how soft this would be between my fingers but I could never imagine it would be like this. There have been so many meetings where I've had to stop myself from ripping off one of your stupid hats, grabbing you by your hair, and making you pay attention.”

 

Grantaire arched his neck and gave a small moan, following the hold. The movement bared his throat, the flesh red in the vague shape of a handprint with tiny cornflower colored blooms showing up throughout it. Just enough to remind Enjolras of what had just happened to his friend. Mortification doused his growing libido like an ice bucket, leaving him hollowed out and more than ashamed. He pulled away as quickly as he could, hands closing up to resist any further action. Grantaire looked abandoned, one of his hands chasing after him like it regretted not touching him when they were kissing.

 

With the taste of mint behind his teeth and his friend shivering from the sudden lack of body heat, Enjolras found that he hated himself more than Montparnasse. In this moment, he was the villain.

 

To continue would be to taint everything they could ever be. If he were to cave and give Grantaire the pleasure he wanted, and from the bulge in both their jeans they both wanted it quite badly, then the attack of the night and their sweet kisses could get confused. He would never want anything to muck up the future they could have, including his careless lust.

 

“We can't do this,” Enjolras informed him, resisting the urge to lick his lips to get a lingering taste, “You've just been attacked, you need time to cope and heal. I shouldn't be doing this, this is wrong. The things I've said are – are vulgar and certainly inappropriate. I've acted less than a gentleman and there is no excuse for it.”

 

“I-I don't need time,” Grantaire stumbled over his words as he tried to regain his composure, still a bit addled, “I'm okay. It's you, Apollo, I trust you.”

 

“Don't,” Enjolras implored, guilt nipping up his heart when the artist shook his head, “Forgive me, Grantaire. I can't be with you right now, I don't trust myself to do you any good.”

 

His full name was like a blow to the chest.

 

“Call me if you need _anything_ ,” Enjolras practically sprinted to the door, yanking it open, “Joly's ready to come over and I'll stay outside until he does. I should've left earlier, this was – if I had any sense for your health I would've stayed away.”

 

“Stay?” Grantaire pleaded shamelessly.

 

“I can't,” Enjolras shook his head, lagging in the doorway in his reluctance, “The things we feel...we're both overwhelmed and exhausted. That drug is inside you, making you vulnerable, and I'm so angry I can barely see straight. I can't be what you need right now. I have...poor control.”

 

The artist pushed off the wall and swayed on his feet, catching himself against a desk, “I just need you. I really don't want to be alone right now.”

 

Enjolras swallowed around the heavy lump in his throat, “I wish...”

 

Grantaire watched the blonde leave, the door closing between them. He stood there leaning on his small table until a pathetic sniveling sound started to fill the apartment. He wasn't surprised to find it coming from his own mouth. Though his knees felt like jello, he slowly made his way to the ladder. Numb fingers somehow held his weight as he hauled himself up until he could fling himself into cool sheets. That hollow feeling lingered, like he'd been shelled and discarded. A husk. He couldn't feel anything besides the welling sense of rejection souring up his gullet.

 

Grantaire spotted his phone laying on the shelf beside his pillows. It seemed like his bed had been straightened up, the blankets smoothed out and some of his empty beer bottles gone. He couldn't smell anything different but he knew who had done it.

 

He grabbed his mobile and settled on his back, flipping it open to message Joly and Eponine.

 

**Come over when you can - R**

 

Tears had started to drip into his hair by the time one of them replied.

 

**What do I need to bring? - J**

 

**A new heart. I think mine's broken - R**

* * *

**THAT was my masterpiece and I'm so proud of it. Just this whole chapter, I think it was my best writing. I hated it in editing but most of the time writing it was spent going "That was so good, I am so brilliant". Lots of ego stroking, but mostly thanks to you guys and your lovely reviews!**

**So many new things:[Part II of the fanmix](http://8tracks.com/stevi-lynn-5/you-paint-what-you-can-t-have-part-ii) is up with better songs and more feels (and if you check out the songs you'll see where the fic's going). New photosets [here](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/56023189178/montparnasse-pulled-out-his-phone-putting-his), [here](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/56023878872/i-cant-enjolras-shook-his-head-lagging-in-the), and [here ](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/56023483984/violence-the-dark-haired-man-rolled-his-eyes)that go along with this chapter and I'm particularely proud of them if you want to check them out.**

**I know I made you wait a long time but this chapter is about 3,000 words longer than the biggest chapter I've posted. This was a monster and I almost cut it in half but I didn't think it was worth it. You guys deserved all the feels.**

**Review = faster writing time**

**You guys are the best and I really hope you liked it. I really tried to give Enjolras point of view for the first time because even I was starting to feel unsympathetic for him. Then I realized it was because I hadn't let him voice his side yet and that wasn't fair. I just love Grantaire too much, he's totally overuling this fic. Much more Enjolras to come.**

 


	14. An Offered Apology and Apollo's Vengeance

Enjolras had Combeferre and Courfeyrac over the next day, discussing everything from how to get their revenge to their class assignments. Anything to get their minds off their hang-overs and the night before. They kept themselves busy talking about the looming threat of riot and finals, going through their contacts more slowly than usual.

 

Courfeyrac was uncharacteristically sullen, head resting on a mound of books and fingers idly playing with the pens scattered across the table.

 

“Did you see his face?” the ravenette inquired softly, brows knitted.

 

“ 'Feyrac, please,” Enjolras rubbed a hand over his eyes.

 

“I can't stop thinking about it,” Courfeyrac's face screwed up like a child about to throw a tantrum, “It could have been any of us. Poor R...he's so nice...who could hurt him like that?”

 

“Monsters, that's who.”

 

“I wish I could've done something,” he buried his face in his arm, words muffled under the skin, “We were all there and we could've saved him.”

 

“I still can't believe you propositioned him,” Combeferre muttered beneath his breath.

 

Blue eyes snapped to him, “Don't.”

 

“I'm serious,” the other blonde finally looked up from his book, eyes long gone cold, “I thought you were a better man than one who decides to make sexual advances on a man who's just been attacked.”

 

Enjolras's jaw ticked beneath his skin, “I wasn't in the best state of mind, I admit that. I shouldn't have drank as much as I did and I was feeling everything too much. What I did was wrong. You don't have to guilt me, I feel enough without you adding.”

 

The front door slammed open, the clatter of it echoing through the apartment. Enjolras had barely gotten to his feet before Joly appeared in the doorway, color high on his cheeks and an ugly scowl twisting his mouth. He looked enraged, a new emotion on their usually meek medical student.

 

“You bastard!” Joly seethed, dark eyes aflame, “You pretentious brat! You _motherfucker_!”

 

Enjolras couldn't move out of the way in time to dodge his friend's tackle, the smaller man driving him straight into the table. The edge dug so hard into his back he coughed out his breath, the next blow coming in the form of a fist. Joly caught him in the side of his face and he nearly toppled over, hands clawing at the wood to keep his balance. Combeferre grabbed their smaller friend under the arms and shoved him back.

 

“Joly!” Courfeyrac jumped up and between them, holding out his arms to keep Joly back, “Stop!”

 

“Do you know what he did?” Joly demanded, trying to get around the ravenette only to get grabbed and pushed back again, “Let me at him!”

 

Enjolras rubbed his mouth, a bit of scarlet coming away on his digits. He stared down at them, rubbing them together until red seeped into the swirls of his fingerprints. The man had a better right hook than he would've ever given him credit for.

 

“How could you do it?” Joly lunged at him again, getting caught around the waist by his dark haired friend, “How could you? He was nearly comatose when I got there! Why the hell would you say that shit to him and then just _leave_?!”

 

“I couldn't be there anymore, I wasn't doing him any good,” Enjolras tried to explain, “It was better for him.”

 

“ 'Better for him'?” Joly gaped, floored by the statement, “You can't give him everything he's ever wanted and then just walk away!”

 

“I was only hurting him by being there!”

 

“He could've killed himself!”

 

The room grew quiet except for Joly's labored breathing, Courfeyrac's arms dropping to his side in shock. Combeferre wobbled before falling into the closest seat, disbelief etching itself across his face. Enjolras mouth opened and closed a few times but he couldn't find anything to say. His fingers danced almost subconsciously over his chest in the sign of a cross.

 

“What?”

 

“You have no idea what you've done,” Joly pushed Courfeyrac away, an accusatory staring searing their blonde leader, “You've ruined _everything_.”

 

With one last growl of frustration, Joly left just as suddenly as he'd come in.

 

“Jesus,” Combeferre breathed, “R wouldn't really, would he?”

 

“I...I don't know,” Enjolras frowned when he realized the truth of it, “But I fully intend to find out.”

 

***

 

Enjolras waited until later in the evening to go out in search of his friend. He knew Joly only drank when he got upset and there was just one place to find him.

 

Musain was quiet, an off-night for the bar where only the regulars fluttered through. His friend was easy to spot at the bar, shoulders slumped and dark chestnut locks tousled like he'd been running his hands through it. There was a mug on his lips and he was downing the dregs of it. Enjolras slid onto the stool next to him, signaling for Simplice to bring another of the same.

 

“On me,” Enjolras laid the money on the counter for her, adding a bit of a tip that made her smile, “Thank you.”

 

Joly swiped up the new glass when it was set in front of him, scowling along the brim of it, “If this is an apology, you've got the wrong person.”

 

“I hope it to be more of a peace offering,” Enjolras pointed out gently, “I'm here about Grantaire.”

 

“Hn,” he took a long slug of the beer, “You didn't ice your jaw.”

 

Enjolras raised two fingers to his jaw, feeling the heat of the skin and the slight swell from the impact. It was true, he'd left it as it was.

 

“Trying to punish yourself corporally?” Joly snorted into his drink, “Fitting.”

 

“I hope you don't plan on driving.”

 

“Don't!” Joly turned in his seat, pointing at the older boy with a single-minded fury in his stare, “Don't you _dare_ try to father me, not after what you did. I can't look at you like a leader, not right now.”

 

The blonde snapped his mouth shut, “I'm sorry. I keep forgetting.”

 

“Forgetting?”

 

“That I've lost so much respect in one single night.”

 

Joly puffed up, “You-”

 

“-deserve it, I know,” Enjolras waved his hand as if to dismiss it, “ 'Ferre can't look at me either. I don't expect anyone to be happy with me. I'm...”

 

He blew out a short breath, leaning his head on his fist, “I'm not happy with me.”

 

“Quite right,” Joly turned back to his beer, “I'm not going to give you an apology.”

 

“I don't want one,” he tried to smile, swore jaw twanging in protest, “I would've done the same thing. Much worse. I told you I'm not here for that.”

 

“You're here for 'Taire,” the medical student made a face, “Well, what do you want to know? Let's start with how I had to knock him out with diphenhydramine to get him to sleep. How I had to leave him with Eponine because I couldn't take the things he was saying about himself. It was this terrible mix of self-hatred and more cynicism than I thought he was capable of. He hates the world and everything in it right now.”

 

Enjolras flinched like he'd been feinted at, mouth pulled down, “I...I'm sorry to hear that. I wanted to come see him today but-”

 

“Don't,” Joly spat, forefinger tracing the rim of his mug, “You come near him and Eponine will tear you apart. And with that look in his eyes, he might actually set you on fire.”

 

“I didn't think I'd be welcome,” the orator nodded as he accepted the glass of water Simplice gave him, “Thank you.”

 

“If you need something stronger, just holler.”

 

“I will.”

 

Once she was out of earshot, he turned back to his friend.

 

“You keep implying that Grantaire is different,” Enjolras began with a much more level tone, “You said 'someone like him' last night and this morning you said he could've...done the worst. I know it's not your place to say, and it's definitely not my place to ask, but what is it? I know he's not the happiest person and his self-esteem is shot, but is there something wrong with him?”

 

He clenched his eyes shut, “I didn't mean it like that.”

 

“I know,” Joly admitted, “You're just...what's that saying? Emotionally constipated. Your wording outside a soap box is atrocious.”

 

“Sounds about right.”

 

“ 'Taire's not depressed, not clinically,” Joly finally let out, a small weight lifting off his chest with each word, “He's just been through a lot, you know? His family's abusive and when you grow up seeing the worst that a human can be, it's hard to get past it. If I had been through all that, I would be a lot worse. I shouldn't be telling you this.”

 

The younger man dropped his head onto the lip of his mug, “You know those things you said about him, they're all true.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“He's promiscuous so he can feel something,” Joly let everything tumble out, “He said it was better to feel used than nothing at all. I can't tell you how many times I've had to fix him up because he let some random asshole off the street treat him rough. He has these mood swings like I've never seen. I wish I could help him more but he needs therapy and a stable home life, not medication. God, if he would just see how amazing he is, I'm sure it would fix a lot. Maybe not _fix_ , but it would set him on the right road and that's so much fucking more than he has now.”

 

Joly suddenly lifted his head and took a few big gulps before glaring at the blonde, “He doesn't think he's _worthy._ I wonder where he got those ideas?”

 

“His father, his brothers maybe?” Enjolras grit his teeth, “And me, I'm sure.”

 

“You can be so _mean_ ,” the student whined, agony twisting his face like he was the one suffering, “You come off strong and you wound everyone so easily. Jesus, Enjolras...you have no idea how much you can hurt us with just a few words. We can't even properly make fun of Grantaire for loving someone like you when you have more than half our hearts.”

 

That caught him off guard and sent a rush of affection up through his chest, a brief smile coupling with his warming cheeks.

 

Enjolras reached out and put a hand along the back of Joly's head, fingers lacing through short hair, “Joly...I can't thank you enough for this. I know how much of a betrayal this must seem but I promise I'm trying to right by him. If I would've stayed last night, I would've hurt him more deeply than I could ever heal.”

 

Joly leaned into the touch, “How?”

 

“I would've taken advantage of him.”

 

The medical's student glistening eyes shot up to his, wide with the prospect, “Are you serious?”

 

“We both confessed some things we shouldn't have, and we let our emotions get away from us. _I_ did, at least,” Enjolras tisked lowly, “I let myself get carried away and I will have to live with that. If I had stayed another minute I think we would've ended up in bed.”

 

Joly couldn't stop staring and it was more than unnerving, “Some of us thought you were in love with him, but...Christ, Enj, I didn't know you actually were. I was just guessing!”

 

“I don't know what I feel,” the blonde admitted reluctantly, “But I know this: I care about him far too much to use him like everyone else has. I'm going to do everything I can to fix the damage I've caused and if he still loves me in the end...”

 

Enjolras dropped his hand and his eyes, heartstrings tugging painfully at the thought of Grantaire looking upon him in indifference, “Then I'll be the most undeserving man in all of France.”

 

“I can't believe this,” Joly followed it with another long swill from his mug, “I need another drink.”

 

“How about one more and I drive you home?” Enjolras offered.

 

“Deal.”

 

He was at the bottom of his mug before he spoke again.

 

“I don't know how you're going to clean this mess up.”

 

“Neither do I.”

 

*****

 

_The Next Day_

 

Grantaire wasn't hiding. He absolutely was not hiding.

 

He slipped into Les Amis without Fantine spotting him, slinking up the stairs and into the stacks without so much as stepping on a squeaky floorboard.

 

So...he was hiding.

 

It felt a little like _Phantom of the Opera_ with his military cap pulled low over his darkened eyes and his highest collared jacket attempting to hide the bluing bruise on his neck. He didn't want any of his friends to see him and he knew they were milling around in the attic for a meeting. He wanted to be there but he wasn't sure he was up to seeing any of them face to face. They'd all been texting, offering to come over, but he'd politely declined. Cosette had dropped off a small basket of muffins and grain-soap that seemed to cleanse him more than his own. Joly kept leaving ice packs and painkillers outside his door and Combeferre had left a binder on top of the last batch with notes from his missed classes within it. He expected his friend would do the same of the ones he'd skipped out on today.

 

Combeferre was a good man like that.

 

Lesgle had called him nearly crying the other day, begging him for forgiveness and to not hate his house. Grantaire had assured him he had nothing to worry about and that they could hang out together at his house next week. He was already dreading it.

 

Grantaire found the old piano Fantine's grandmother had owned tucked away towards the back, a stained glass window overlooking it to cast a multi-colored shadow across it. He'd always loved it and he knew if he played enough, Fantine would come up and bring him some coffee. A musical cue. She was used to his eclectic ways and would recognize it for what it was, a plea to be alone but caffeinated. She was just too good to him.

 

He played a jaunty tune, the notes sharp and quick as the music started flitting through his head. He hummed along, letting a few words escape now and then. He was good at picking up things by ear and he had caught this particular song on the American radio he ran through his phone when he was painting.

 

“ _Song, women, and wine...you can't fool all the people all the time_ ,” he smiled to himself, his fingers flying across the keys with more ease as he sank into the melody. Maybe Eponine would agree to get some people together and play this particular song down at the Musain on open mic night. He would bet money they would kill if he could crank out the piano from memory this easily.

 

The thought of something so normal sent his heart into a pleased flutter.

 

“ _And who the hell was I to disagree?_ ” his voice grew in strength as he recalled the passion in the singer's projection, “ _Didn't you used to be someone who meant something to me? Somebody who-_ ”

 

Grantaire broke off in a rough cough, fingers clanging on the keys under the force of it before they came up to cover his mouth and throat. It had been too much of a strain, every finger of the bruise burning like a lick of flame. His chest and shoulders shuddered as he tried to get through it but he had nothing to soothe it.

 

A hand settled in the middle of his back and a glass was pushed into his hand, the icy touch enough incentive for him to drink it. The water felt like a salve going down, coating and cooling everything down to his stomach. The broad palm rubbed circles across his shoulders as his coughing settled down, the touch helping him just as much.

 

“Thank you,” Grantaire rasped, setting the glass down on the side of the piano. He turned to smile at whoever had helped him only to find a mop of blonde curls and miles of tan skin.

 

For the first time, Grantaire found he had no heart for Apollo's presence.

 

“Enjolras,” the artist kept his tone clipped and professional. He wasn't sure if he wanted to flee, damage that pretty face, or throw himself into the older man's arms. He had this blue and grey shirt that screamed casual and framed his neck like sin, just as handsome as if he were in a suit.

 

“You shouldn't strain yourself like that,” Enjolras sounded concerned and his brow was even set in that deep groove that meant he was worried, “Why are you hiding up here? Come join us.”

 

“No thank you,” Grantaire declined, standing up and quickly putting a few feet between them. The spot on his back where the man's hand had rested went cold and he couldn't stop himself from missing it.

 

“How are you?” Enjolras pressed, rocking forward on his feet as if he wanted to follow him.

 

“Why are you doing this?” he hated how his voice wavered, “I'm not to be played with, no matter what people think of me.”

 

“I don't think that of you,” Enjolras rushed to explain, “I'm not trying to pull anything. I've just been worried but I haven't wanted to crowd you so I've kept my distance.”

 

“You do so well at that,” Grantaire bit out, “ _Distance_. From Mount Olympus to Earth.”

 

“There's some things I need to say to you.”

 

“Ah, you're pulling all your skills out this afternoon,” he stood his ground, raising his chin defiantly, “Speak, then.”

 

“I can never apologize enough for last night,” the blonde had an even tone and it made him that much angrier, “The things I said were ungentlemanly and ill-timed. You gave me poetry and truth and I could only return hazy, base instincts from my clouded judgment. I yield that I had drank enough to lower my inhibitions but that's still no excuse. I couldn't think straight and you deserve more than that. I understand your anger and I want to make it up to you.”

 

It was so _Enjolras_ -esque that he wanted to instantly forgive him, but he couldn't when the man didn't seem to get the point.

 

“You think I'm angry for your choice of words?” Grantaire tried for a wry chuckle but it came closer to bitter, “You think I'm _upset_ about your lack of response to my hero-worship?”

 

Enjolras made a perplexed noise in the back of his throat.

 

“I've been degraded worse than that by more than contemptible men, the things you said were more than welcome. There has never been a word from your lips that I haven't liked,” Grantaire clammed back up the moment he realized he was falling head-first into his love of the man, “It's what you did that hurts. You walked away from me like a coward. I all but threw myself at your feet and you wouldn't stay.”

 

Grantaire shook his head and started to walk away. Enjolras called his name and rushed after him, grabbing the artist's arm in an attempt to stop him. Grantaire shrugged off his grip and spun around with a sharp glare that made the blonde jerk back.

 

“I always thought that when I finally got the courage to tell you how I felt, you would at least have the balls to _stay_!” the steely resolve in his voice startled them both, “I thought you were more of a man than that but I was obviously wrong.”

 

Enjolras's white teeth dragged over his lower lip, looking for all the world like he was losing. Grantaire felt his heart warming at the sight. At least his friend _looked_ remorseful. Maybe, just maybe, he felt the same.

 

“I want to be the man you think I am.”

 

He shook his head, “Maybe you never were what I thought you to be.”

 

The stare between them was heavier than it had ever been, even at their most argumentative.

 

“Boys?”

 

They broke their eye-lock to look toward the voice. Fantine was standing there with a cup of coffee cradled between her gloved palms, dark gaze positively stony and her red lips quirked up in a faux-friendly smile. Her quiet displeasure was aimed quite clearly at Enjolras, the blonde dropping his head in an uncharacteristically submissive gesture.

 

The usually unshakeable man seemed more...fragile, somehow.

 

“No, ma'am,” Enjolras replied, glancing up at her briefly before making his way past her, “I was just leaving.”

 

“Of course you were,” Fantine tilted her head toward him as if listening to his retreat before coming up to the dark haired boy, “Here you are, my dove.”

 

“Thanks,” he took up the mug and inhaled the rich scent, the first tingle of caffeine teasing his system. He looked over her shoulder to find intense blue eyes lingering on him for a few long seconds before the older man disappeared behind the shelves. A sense of loss settled low in his gut but he drowned it in a too-hot gulp of coffee.

 

“Did he say something to you?” Fantine demanded, eyes flicking over to where the boy had disappeared, “Does Valjean need to have a talk with him?”

 

“Cosette told you, I assume?”

 

“None of us think any different of you,” her ivory fingers came up to stroke over the colored bruise on his jaw, “We love you very much, as do the boys. If there's anything you need, anything at all, don't you hesitate to ask.”

 

“I was knocked around not crippled,” Grantaire teased, trying to make light of it, “I just don't want to show off my mishap. When the color dies down a bit, I'll start showing my face. No one needs to see this.”

 

He thumbed at the bruise she had just touched.

 

“Your Apollo didn't seem to shy from it.”

 

He scowled at her but she didn't seem to care, “You heard what he did?”

 

“Of course,” Fantine smiled sympathetically, “I understand why you're angry.”

 

She let it sink in for a moment.

 

“He's a good man and it sounds like he's sincere.”

 

Grantaire raised his mug to his lips with a silent, _I know_.

 

*****

 

_Whoosh_

 

Enjolras didn't sleep again.

 

_Whoosh. Whoosh._

 

Two nights with less than four hours and his body was feeling it, paired on top of his poor eating habits and he was more than exhausted. He'd tried all the usual things: yoga, warm tea, meditation. None of them had worked. He prayed Grantaire was finding an easier time sleeping through the night.

 

In hopes of helping his body pump out more adenosine and cortisol to jump start his day, he hit the gym early and was choking down an herbal shake that tasted like grass. He could blame Jehan for the natural-hippie crap drink but it was Joly who force-fed him neurology.

 

_Whoosh. Whoosh._

 

The cycle he'd chosen ran smooth, the steady pumps like a loud heartbeat to keep rhythm to. The news ran on the TV nearby and he kept an eye on the headlines. The gym had procured a smaller room for the bike machines and the volume was available to anyone who wanted it, the drone of the newscasters a hum in the background.

 

Anything was better than staring at his phone for a text that wouldn't come. He felt like he'd been waiting years for Grantaire to contact him when in truth he'd been with the man yesterday. Ever since he'd seen him at Les Amis he'd been going over their conversation, replaying every sentence and picking it apart. Though he didn't want it, he'd come to a conclusion in the middle of the night.

 

His words hadn't been unwelcome, it had been his actions.

 

That meant he had a great deal more work ahead of him.

 

_Whoosh. Whoosh._

 

Grantaire was worth it. He would get his affection and respect back if it was the last thing he did.

 

 _Whoosh_.

 

Enjolras grunted out loud as his thigh gave a pulse of painful protest. His phone rang from inside his bag, he reached up and tapped his bluetooth until he heard the telltale beep of the connection. His legs were still pumping as he cleared his throat.

 

“This is Enjolras,” there wasn't even a hint of breathlessness in his voice.

 

“ _I found him._ ”

 

The soft handles of the machine creaked under his tightening grip. It was Bahorel, the call he'd been hoping for since the night of the attack.

 

“Where is he?”

 

“ _I'll text you the address and the blind spots. He'll be there with the others tonight._ ”

 

There was a long pause over the line.

 

“ _Do you need help? Feuilly and I want to be there._ ”

 

“No one else,” Enjolras reminded him firmly, “If this goes badly I don't want the rest of you to get dragged down.”

 

“ _Shit, E, are you going to kill them?_ ”

 

He tapped the device on his ear once more, cutting off the connection.

 

That was a good question.

 

***

 

He wished he'd taken Lesgle up on his offer to come in. The waiting room seemed like miles away once that door had closed. The nurse had been nice enough and the blood pressure cuff had hardly pinched at all, but it wasn't enough to shake his nerves. Joly had stopped by his house just a few hours ago on his way to class with a solemn look on his face.

 

“ _There was a lot of blood, R. You broke Babet's nose and your knuckles were busted open...I'm just saying it wouldn't be a bad thing to get yourself tested.”_

 

The word _tested_ had sent a cold chill through him and he'd instantly agreed. Lesgle was the first person he called and he was more than willing to drive him. He'd wanted to go with him but Grantaire's pride had flared and he'd declined. But here in this too-white frigid room with its drawn blinds and its familiar bits and bobs, he'd never felt more alone. A sterile isolation, like he'd been committed. These kinds of places were similar to factories, quick in-and-outs. The informality didn't bother him but the detached aura that came with these visits kept him from coming back very often.

 

Grantaire parted two of the blinds to get a peek out into the parking lot. Cars of every color filled the spots, trees and flowers sprouting up in colorful patches like the Earth was trying to take it back. Limbs swayed under the force of the breeze and his fingers itched to open the latch and feel it for himself. Anything to get the ozone taste of the hospital out of his mouth.

 

There was a quick knock on the door before a man slipped in a moment later, the doctor from the look of him. Grantaire went stock still but tried not to show it, holding his ground by the window as the physician took a seat and greeted him. He wasn't particularly tall and his hair was coiffed and the color of hay, a slice of grey-blue eyes peeking through dark lashes as he read over the chart in his hands.

 

“I'm sorry about your wait. It seems we're quite popular today.”

 

Grantaire shook his head though the man wasn't looking.

 

“It says here that you've requested quite a battery of tests,” his smile was no unkind, more along the lines of understanding when he glanced up at the youth, “It's better to be safe than sorry. I commend you for wanting to get it all done at once. I hope you have someone to drive you home after this because you're going to be giving up quite a bit of blood.”

 

He looked back to the window, lips sealed shut.

 

The doctor sat back in his chair, a slight frown tugging his lips, “If that sounds like too much we can have you come back in throughout the week. Take it a bit at a time.”

 

When Grantaire didn't respond, the older man set the chart down on the table and seemed to change tactics. He leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees, fingers laced in front of him as if in casual prayer.

 

“You sure got yourself a collection of bruises there.”

 

The artist's mouth pursed until it stained white, hand tugging idly at his collar in an attempt to hide the color at his throat.

 

“It seems as if you ran into some people who don't respect personal space,” he glanced over to see the man looking at him but not staring as some might, “I bet you have a hell of a tale to go along with them.”

 

 _If only he knew_ , Grantaire scoffed.

 

“There are a few good people here who are particularly good at listening to those kinds of stories.”

 

The doctor stood and grabbed the chart again when he got no response, though the suddenness of his movement caused the younger man to flinch and nearly smack into the wall.

 

“Hey, it's alright,” the doctor soothed, “I'm not going to hurt you.”

 

“I know,” the first words out of his mouth since the nurse and they were hoarse.

 

The older man started to flip through the file again, coming to the back and finding a scrawl of handwriting that made him sigh out hard through his nose.

 

“I'm afraid there's been a mistake, Grantaire, and I apologize profusely for this overlook,” the doctor assured him sincerely, “You requested a female doctor and the front desk didn't relay it to us.”

 

Grantaire breathed a visible sigh of relief, letting his head fall back a bit to rest against the cool wall, “ 'M sorry.”

 

“No, _I'm_ sorry. If I made you uncomfortable at all, it wasn't my intention,” the doctor gave a little bow of his head before walking toward the door, “I'll hand your chart off to Dr. Cabel. She'd be more than happy to do your primary exam and start your blood work. She should be by in just a few minutes.”

 

His mouth dropped open and he managed to squeeze out a small, “Doctor?”

 

The man stopped and looked back. He could see now that his eyes were just as soft with understanding as his smile had been.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“No need to thank me,” the man hesitated on the doorknob, “You're going to be fine, son. I'm sure it's not as bad as your thinking.”

 

Though they were probably spoken every day to a dozen different people, though he may not have meant them, the words smoothed out the nerves this room had frazzled.

 

“I hope not, Doc.”

 

*****

 

Combeferre was the only who taught him to meditate. It was late high school and they had been running in the same circle for almost two years, solid friends. Tennis, medium level martial arts, and jogging were falling short in helping him deal out his aggression and there'd been a two month period where he'd been nothing if not prickly towards his friends. Combeferre had inquired after his mental health and after listening a nearly ten minute rant about his schedule and his family had offered an alternative route. He'd suggested meditation in the morning before leaving the house and at night before he went to bed. Maybe just one or the other at first to see if he liked it but he'd encouraged him to at least _try_ it. The first three days they'd done it together so he could learn how, after that he went off what he could research on the internet. A few weeks later and he was addicted to the ten minutes of tranquility, something to compete even with his runner's high.

 

A month later he'd dropped tennis (much to the chagrin of his mother) and had taken up a twice-daily dose of meditation.

 

Those same exercises were helping him now.

 

Enjolras leaned against the concrete wall of the parking garage, the coolness of it seeping through his leather jacket. It was something he'd picked up at a yard sale just a few hours ago, plucked off the rack and exchanged for far too little with a half blind older woman who had just wanted it gone. That's where he'd snatched the gloves from as well, equally as dark and covering every inch of his fingers. The hoodie under it was old and unused, serving it's purpose by covering the noticeable blonde of his hair. He breathed deep and even, eyes closed to help center himself. There was no risk of him being caught here hidden behind a half-wall like this, tucked in a blind spot and off to the side of the general foot-traffic area. This was the bottom floor of the complex, two more levels of parking lots above his head through poured concrete and steel.

 

It was unsettling to be this far underground but it suited the situation.

 

Waiting had proved the hardest part of this. Violence he could handle, but the anticipation was almost stinging his heart with adrenaline. For the past few minutes he'd slowed it all down to an even rhythm, getting his body back under his control. He couldn't let his rage rule him, he had to keep an iron fist on his impulses and deliver the swift justice he'd planned out. If he unleashed himself and acted on his impulses, no one would walk away tonight.

 

 _He_ would, but he'd leave behind not only his moral system but his self-respect.

 

The baseball bat was heavy between his hands, the metal doughnut weighing it down the only physical restriction he allowed himself. It would slow down his swings but it would make each hit that much more painful. He tested it on the inhale, the wood rolling smooth through his gloves. The faux-leather gripped it just right.

 

There was a laugh down the way, echoing off the walls and hitting his ears like a bell. Footsteps as well, just one set. For now. The car they arrived in was down this way but there was thirty feet of blind spot all around him and he planned to use it to his advantage.

 

Steely blue eyes snapped open, gloves creaking on the handle of the bat. The peaceful thoughts swirled and wrapped themselves up tight and buried themselves below his heart, right in the fire of his determination.

 

Enjolras caught sight of dark hair and long legs and his mind flashed with one word, everything he wanted to do condensed into five syllables.

 

_Incapacitate._

 

Enjolras whistled sharply, catching the man's attention. The smile practically fell of his face when he caught sight of who had made the sound, feet freezing so fast he nearly fell over himself. There was a dark bruise like a stripe across the bridge of his nose.

 

“What's up?” Enjolras nodded at him, advancing confidentially while Babet floundered, “Your face looks better. That purple-blue really suits you.”

 

Babet saw the bat raise, “Oh Jesus, Enjolras!”

 

The first swing took out the man's knee, sending him to the ground. Babet gave a sharp, ringing cry like wounded bird.

 

“ _God_ ,” he wailed, “I didn't touch him!”

 

Enjolras grit his teeth and swung again, the metal ring making contact with the other knee and snapping it with a wet _crunch._ The next sound out of him was a scream, still too high for a full grown man to make.

 

“Didn't touch him, huh?” Enjolras grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the half-wall, throwing him against it, “Pathetic. Stay still and out of my way or your elbows are next.”

 

Babet curled into the corner, breaths wheezing out of him as he tried to shield himself. Blood was starting to soak through his jeans but the blonde couldn't care less. In his mind, Babet's name was already scratched off the list.

 

“ 'Bet?” that voice rearranged the order of his mental list, putting their meathead just a slot lower.

 

No one could say he wasn't accommodating.

 

This time it was golden hair and a dark jacket that ran past him, but this one saw him. _Maim._ Claquesous recognized the danger faster than his friend had and he went on the offensive, lunging at him with the intent to take him to the pavement. Enjolras dodged and smacked off the punch aimed toward him, putting him off balance until the blonde practically dove into the wall.

 

Apparently Claquesous's wealthy father didn't believe his precious first born needed to enroll in self-defense classes, a mistake his own father hadn't made.

 

The slighter man twisted around to face him, exposing himself. Enjolras seized the bat as tight as he could and swung down with a muted _thud_ across the blonde's chest. Something gave beneath the blow, stealing the air from Claquesous's lungs and causing him to seize before crumpling to the ground. The man's face was contorted and his jaw was open like he was screaming but no sound came out, after a moment there was a rather weak wheeze.

 

Enjolras leaned down and pressed his fingers against the man's clavicle, bone sliding under his touch.

 

Claquesous found the air to scream this time.

 

Enjolras couldn't stop the cool smirk from crossing his lips as he straightened up, “Serves you right.”

 

“You broke his fucking collarbone, you bastard!” Babet declared, cheeks wet as his trembling palms tried to cup his knees. Enjolras pointed the bat at him and the man quieted down, a feeble little sniffle his only reply. Smugness was just starting to bubble up in his chest when he heard someone approaching him, almost too late. A hand dropped down on to his shoulder and he knew only someone as confident as Montparnasse would just grab an opponent so he reacted as such. He swept his foot back to knock the man off-kilter before grabbing his arm and wrenching, intending to throw him over his shoulder into Claquesous.

 

The ankle didn't give way and the wrist he had both hands on was much thicker than he'd expected, tanner. Not Montparnasse.

 

Enjolras ran his eyes up the limb until he met dull brown eyes with a forced simper, “Hello, Gueulemer.”

 

The brute gave a growl before shoulder-blocking him into the wall, his boots nearly smashing Claquesous in the face. Gueulemer was on him in an instant, broad palm closing over his throat and pushing _up_ until he was on his toes and breathless. The bigger man didn't give an inch, cutting off his airway so completely that he could almost feel the blood vessels bursting beneath the force. He let out a choked sound and dug his leather-clad fingers into the older man's arm in an attempt to loosen his hold. The pressure on his joints wasn't working fast enough to his liking so Gueulemer's status changed from _Incapacitate_ to _Maim_.

 

Enjolras grabbed the man's shoulders as best he could for leverage before swinging up, digging his knee straight into the 'v' of his groin. Gueulemer let out a _hoof_ of breath before letting go. Enjolras dropped and swiped his bat up, driving the blunt end into the older man's ribs. It was like hitting a brick wall, the recoil jolting the bones from his wrist to his elbow. He threatened to topple and the orator moved quickly, landing two more hits that forced the man to the ground. Babet was chirping behind him excitedly but was ignored in favor of slamming the metal ring down the middle of Gueulemer's back. The other blonde went down to his hands and knees, leaving him more exposed than before.

 

Enjolras gave him a swift punt to the head and he was down for the count, mouth stained red and body limp. Taking a few relieving breaths to calm himself, the smugness returned.

 

“Not so tough against someone sober, are you?” Enjolras mocked, sounding only a bit rougher than before, “I'll prefer the term _Giant Slayer_ after this.”

 

“Oh for fuck sake's, Enjolras.”

 

Enjolras whipped around, the ball bat swaying in his grip as if seeking the new danger. Montparnasse was standing there with his arms over his chest and his pink mouth pulled down in a harsh frown. He looked around at his fallen friends with the air of someone who'd received a bad meal, not someone who was standing alone against a red-faced man who he had unforgivably wronged.

 

“Is this really necessary?” he looked so coolly displeased, it made the protestor's blood boil, “Righteous justice at its most violent. It's a lovely mess you've made but a _mess_ nonetheless.”

 

“It's deserved.”

 

“You don't believe that,” Montparnasse finally flashed a grin, “I bet you've already run out of time. Your little bleeding heart is getting all eaten up with guilt as we speak. You've crippled two men and knocked out a third. The Enjolras _I_ know would be feeling positively _evil_ right now.”

 

“ 'Parnasse,” Claqueous tried to warn without moving his head or neck at all.

 

“I bet you've already called an ambulance for them,” he laughed, body language softening up, “Enjolras the Archangel. The bright Apollo, the figurehead. No, you don't have the balls to continue.”

 

The bat clattered to the floor.

 

“And what is my crime? What was theirs?” a dark brow raised, “We humiliated your pet. We touched your property. _Oooooo_ , call the police. Who are you trying to impress here, Enjolras? Because I'm not biting.”

 

“I was waiting for you,” the blonde tightened the binding on his gloves, the leather clinging tight to his fingers, “Nice of you to send your boys first. I wouldn't want my attention diverted.”

 

A flicker of fear came over the paler man's handsome face, “You don't believe in this kind of...?”

 

He trailed off as Enjolras advanced upon him, disbelief creeping into his voice, “You _do_.”

 

“You hurt someone who has come to mean very much to me,” Enjolras reached out and fisted his hand within the bastard's showy silk shirt, “Since your behavior lately has been beastly, I expect you'll take your punishment like a man.”

 

“You don't have a taste for-!”

 

Enjolras felt him choke on his words beneath his fist, the faint graze of teeth almost nonexistent through the gloves. Perfect.

 

Montparnasse couldn't reel far but when he recovered enough of his senses he could only stare at him.

 

Enjolras took him to the pavement with a rough shove and took his revenge one blow at a time. With every _smack_ of flesh on leather came away another piece of his armor, cracking open to real the wild rage that had been building since he had rushed into that guest room and seen Grantaire so thoroughly abused. Though he straddled Montparnasse's chest, it was his cynical friend he was seeing behind his red veil. The blown out look in his eyes, the fresh hand print on his throat, the way he'd clung to him and tried to stifle his sobs.

 

Too many hearts had been broken that night.

 

By the time Enjolras shook himself out of his stupor, Montparnasse was a bloody mess. His lips and right cheek were cut open, face already starting to get puffy. He could finish the job, it would be easy. Break his nose fully then a quick palm strike down, shove the cracked nasal bone right into the soft of his brain. It wouldn't take more than a minute and a third of his strength. He could see it so clearly. No more surprise visits at bars and protests, no more open mocking in class or among their friends. No more danger, no more arch-enemy, no more rival.

 

He cared about his artist more than he could describe but was it enough to kill someone?

 

When he looked down at Montparnasse and felt nothing...he knew that _yes_ , he would kill for Grantaire. And maybe a day would come when it would be necessary, but today was not that day.

 

“Can you hear me?” he hissed through grit teeth.

 

Montparnasse made a noise in the back of his throat before coughing up another spatter of crimson, staining his chin and lips. He shook him once by the grip he had in his shirt, getting a garbled _y-yeah_ in return. All the cockiness was gone, replaced by the desperation of a man who was lucky to have all his teeth.

 

“Don't you _ever_ presume to know what I'm capable of or _what_ I have a taste for,” Enjolras dug his thumb into the base of his neck, driving his point in with the hard pressure, “If you come near my friends again, I will destroy you. Next time it's your career, and your third strike...your third is your life.”

 

Enjolras got up off the groaning man and found his bat again, tucking it under his arm. He started toward his car without looking back, keeping his head down and his shoulder to the wall. His steps were quick and efficient and he soon reached the emergency door of the parking garage. He shouldered it open and slipped out into the night, keeping to the alleys for at least two blocks. On the third he slowed down and dared to raise his head, looking over his shoulder half-expecting to see Gueulemer revived and charging.

 

The night was quiet and empty.

 

He raked back his hood and stepped into the streetlight to get the first real view of himself. There were slick patches across him from lapel to fingertips, a slight crimson gleam shining in it when he moved.

 

Enjolras stopped at the next trash bin he came to. There was a line of them against the dark brick wall, unmarked and as common as anything else. He flipped up the lids one at a time and peered inside. Half full, normal trash, nothing spectacular about it. The metal doughnut went in the first bucket, the bat in the next. He unzipped his jacket and dropped it down with a thud into the third, his blood-speckled gloves falling into the last.

 

He flexed his hands tentatively to find his knuckles sore and the skin split in some places. He'd hit too hard, too carelessly. They would hurt ten times worse tomorrow. He would have a hell of a time doing paper work and typing over the weekend.

 

Enjolras slammed all the lids closed and left them behind just as easily as he'd left the Patron-Minette.

* * *

**I really hoped you liked it. A little rougher than I had intended but it is what it is. Review and tell me what you think, I love to hear from you. The reviews I got from the last chapter were more than phenomenal and I appreciate you guys more than you know.**

**Tumblr photosets for this chapter[here ](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/56406088314/i-bet-youve-already-called-an-ambulance-for)and [here](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/56406397036/i-dont-think-that-of-you-enjolras-rushed-to)**

**ADDITION:**

**SOMEONE DREW[THE LAST SCENE](http://catsmagiccastle.tumblr.com/post/56423856663/enjolras-beating-the-shit-out-of-montparnesse-from)!! This amazing person called catsmagiccastle drew Enjolras taking his sweet justice out of Montparnasse's face and it is beautiful. I mean, amazing. The art itself is great but the DETAILS are breathtaking. I went on for a good five minutes about it, I showed everyone from my mother to my sister and I honestly want a print of it for my room. I want to personally thank you, catsmagiccastle, for bringing my story to life.**

**PS: It's come to my attention I've been spelling 'Feyrac's name wrong and I'm sorry about that. To be hoenst, as much as I love the boys, I can't say half their names**

 

 

 

 


	15. NOT ABANDONED!! UPDATE SOON!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a chapter, I'm sorry, but good news!

Don't worry, my loves, this fic is not abandoned. I got my shit together and I finished my Pitch Perfect fic so I'm ready to get back to business on this fic. Tonight, I'm officially starting the next chapter. I'm thinking about four more chapters, and they'll be beautiful and amazing (I hope). I promise to aim for finishing this by the end of the month but I am seven days behind schedule. I want to start up my Walking Dead/Boondock Saints fic again about the time of season four, and that's on the 30th. So, no real promises, but this fic should be done around the 7th of next month. 

 

I'm so sorry for the delay, I really am. Life, and school, and lack of friends/lack of relationship, and personal things. But I'm back now! Thank you all for supporting me and, again, I apologize for leaving you hanging like that. 

 

See you in a few days with a new chapter!

-Emono


	16. Where Everything Happens At Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras tries to fix the mess he made.

**Here it is, my loves! The biggest chapter yet (I'm pretty sure). Read it slow, savor it, because I think I actually cut my wrist open and poured it all over the chapter. Ew, gross images, I apologize for that. I hope you enjoy it, I really do. Thank you for all your support. We have at least three chapters left. As always, all spelling errors and grammar mistakes are my own**

* * *

 

After many texts and knocking, Combeferre finally convinced Grantaire to come to a Saturday morning meeting. With the memory of the clinic only a dozen hours fresh in his mind – _the isolation, the needle in his arm, the creak of the plastic armrest beneath his clawing fingers_ – he agreed. There was dead air between them until he was swerving up to the front of Les Amis, his phone buzzing obnoxiously as he tried to flip his board up into his waiting palm. The screen held one sentence and it was enough to make him consider turning around.

 

**Enjolras is here - Ferre**

 

He could do this. He needed to be strong and this was just the first of many tests. Enjolras would always be around and the sooner he got back to his normal routine the faster he'd learn to deal with his conflicted feelings. If he couldn't sit through one meeting then he didn't have a future with the ABC. He loved his friends quite too dearly for that.

 

And to be honest with himself, he needed to hear the steely resolve of Enjolras's voice again. And maybe, just maybe, watch the sun hit his hair. Just once. He didn't want to indulge he just needed his fix. Flinging himself back into his obsession wouldn't repair their friendship and he wasn't about to risk it. His emotions were shaky at best and it would take less than an unkind word to shatter his resolve.

 

_Just do it. It's not going to be as bad as you think. It's never as bad as you think._

 

Grantaire pushed the door open and made his way inside, cutting through the line of customers to get to the attic entrance. He caught sight of a blonde mop of hair going through the door. Just a flash of short sleeves and lean, tan forearms. It felt like he'd been smacked in the stomach, gut twisting almost pleasantly at the sight.

 

“ _Do you? Love me, that is?”_

 

There was no point in leaving now.

 

***

 

Enjolras's cadence was as strong and sure as ever. He spoke about the growing rumors of revolt, a combination of world issue and the thinly stretched welfare state in their mother country. The people were getting restless, at least people like Enjolras were getting restless and they were stirring up trouble. People from Rouen to Paris were talking about getting together in an effort to show their numbers. Unfortunately, this scuttlebutt didn't sound particularly peaceful. Courfeyrac seemed particularly worried about it, though their leader kept bringing the topic back to matters closer to home.

 

There had been several attacks on openly gay students at their sister university in the city. So far no moves were being made by the school board to rectify the situation and no precautions were being taken. What made it all suspicious was that the university had received substantial donations two days after each attack. It was more than unsettling and he was trying to get Combeferre to agree to lead a small group on an inside job.

 

But none of that mattered because Grantaire couldn't stop staring at the blonde's hands.

 

“Okay, okay,” Combeferre shed his glasses and polished them off on his shirt, shoving them back onto his face with an exasperated sigh, “Say I were to do this. Say I were to risk my position at the school – which is escalating, mind you – and form a band of merry men. Who would you recommend?”

 

Enjolras started to rattle off names when Bahorel groaned loudly, forcing the older boy to cut himself off, “Yes?”

 

“I need a break,” Bahorel begged, holding up a twitching hand, “Look at this crap! Just one smoke and some coffee, man, that's all I want.”

 

Enjolras looked down at his watch with a measure of surprise, “Twenty minutes. I think we could all use with a stretch.”

 

Lesgle pulled out his puppy eyes at the blonde huffed.

 

“Thirty, then.”

 

As usual, Joly and Lesgle were the first to jump up and run to the door. Their laughter trailed behind them as they playfully argued about who could shove more small muffins in their face in thirty minutes.

 

“They're going to make themselves sick,” Combeferre grumbled as he followed them down, his own stomach growling. Already beating the bottom of a new pack of cigarettes, Bahorel offered Courfeyrac a smoke and they disappeared down the stairs as well. Enjolras glanced up long enough to see Jehan and Feuilly leave and assumed he was alone, choosing to spend his time straightening up the mess they'd made of the table when they'd first arrived.

 

He was just returning some of the law books back to their proper shelf when he realized someone was still staring at him, the weight of eyes settling at the base of his neck.

 

Grantaire waited until the rest were gone before standing, glaring the older man down as his feet ate up the space between them. Enjolras turned at the last moment but the artist wouldn't let himself be dodged or rebuked, his hand shot out and he latched on to the blonde's own. The sudden grip sent the remaining books to the floor but neither of them even spared a look to their condition, Enjolras's hand held out and examined thoroughly between them.

 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras breathed out, uncomfortably certain where this was going.

 

“What the hell is this?”

 

Grantaire couldn't believe what he was seeing. Every one of Enjolras's knuckles were blood red but the ones on his right hand were busted, skin torn and raw flesh exposed. They were shiny with ointment and had obviously been iced but they were fresh. This wasn't from self-defense class or a punching bag, this was something far more serious.

 

“How did you get these?” Grantaire demanded fiercely, “You've never hurt anyone in your life.”

 

“That's a lie.”

 

“You're a fucking pacifist, Enjolras, how the hell did you get into a fight?”  


“ _Political_.”

 

“What?” Grantaire snapped impatiently.

 

“I'm a _political_ pacifist, as I've told you,” Enjolras cleared his throat nervously, “I don't believe in using violence to get the people and her government to see the right path unless it's an absolute necessity where lives are at stake. And that's only on the streets, not in the courtroom where I plan to be. I try not to mix my free time with my career endeavors. It's simply not good business.”

 

The older boy stared down at his knuckles as he added, “If I had to shoot someone to save my country or my loved ones, I would.”

 

Grantaire ran his thumb just under the worst of the wounds, suppressing the little sound of distress that tickled his throat, “Who did this to you?”

 

Enjolras's eyes finally met his and they were too unbearably heartfelt to not give into. The blonde looked like he was being given a gift and it was too much.

 

“Who did you do this to?” he corrected firmly.

 

“Montparnasse,” Enjolras answered without hesitation, wincing at his own honesty, “I hit him until I was sure I'd broken something. The rest of them as well.”

 

Grantaire gasped softly as the hand he'd been holding turned and curled around his own protectively, “What they did to you...I couldn't let it go. I couldn't control myself.”

  
“You did _this_ for me?” he ran his thumb over one of the open cuts, driving his point home with pain, “Do you have any idea how much trouble you could've gotten into? What if someone had seen you? What if they caught you on camera somewhere? What if those bastards take it to the police? You know they'll win!”

 

“I was sure to remain off camera,” Enjolras tried not to smile at the rising concern in his friend's voice, “And anyone who saw me will be too scared to go to the police. They have no proof.”

 

“What about this?” Grantaire squeezed his hand until it actually hurt, “What about your clothes? Did you get rid of the shoes and everything?”

 

His golden brow furrowed, “They'll never find anything to use against me.”

 

“And what if they do?” there was a sharp whine in his tone that built with his anxiety, “Do you know what they can do to you? To us? They can get away with so much. After what happened to me, I can't imagine what they'd do to you. _God damn it_ , Enjolras, we can't both be broken! Don't you ever think of anyone but yourself, you stupid child!”

 

Grantaire let his hand go to lash out with an impulsive punch, driving his fist hard into the blonde's shoulder. Enjolras bared his teeth and rolled with it, sore muscles screaming at the blow. The artist immediately drew back with a look of shock and an apology on his lips.

 

“It's fine,” Enjolras rubbed his aching shoulder as gently as he could, “Gueulemer drove me into the wall pretty hard. I'm pretty sure it shook something loose in there.”

 

“Jesus,” Grantaire whispered, stepping into the other man's space and squinting at his neck, “Is that make-up? What is...?”

 

The ravenette swiped his thumb across his Apollo's throat without preamble, a bit of women's dark foundation rubbing off onto the digit. The skin on Enjolras's neck was colored like his own, only not as dark and broader. Like done with a larger hand.

 

“Gueuelemer caught me for a moment,” Enjolras grit his teeth as the slighter man laid his own hand across the mark, covering most of it as if imagining what had happened, “I'm fine.”

 

“We match,” Grantaire mused, palm barely pressing against the mark, “I can't believe you hurt them for me.”

 

“For me as well,” Enjolras tentatively laid his hand over the other's in a shadow across his own neck, “They hurt something that I consider very precious and I couldn't let it lie.”

 

“What a narcissistic mercenary you are,” the artist teased lightly, lungs all knotted and heart up in his throat at the close-to-tender confession. Grantaire felt the start of an impulse and ran with it, lowering his hand and forcing the blonde's to drop back to his side as he curled his fingers in the edge of his t-shirt. He tugged down the cloth to expose Enjolras's neck that much further and, using the hold as leverage, he pulled. The older man stuttered out his name as he brushed his lips across the flesh, tasting the base of the make-up and a distinctive sourness that came with it. He rubbed his mouth along his friend's neck until more navy blue marks showed up, red outlines making them stand out on his golden flesh.

 

Enjolras relaxed and let him, tilting his head a bit out of the way to give him room to explore, “I couldn't hit them hard enough.”

 

“Apollo,” the name came on a sweet exhale that caused the blonde's skin to tingle.

 

“I didn't want to tell you about this. I thought it might disgust you. I'm sorry.”

 

“Don't be,” Grantaire nuzzled the pulse point, heady with the thrill of the moment.

 

They didn't hear the thump of footsteps over the flutter of their hearts, “ 'Taire?”

 

It was Jehan who came up to the attic, smile dying on his lips when he saw the two of them so close. Grantaire's fingers curled in the line of Enjolras's t-shirt, his mouth just pulling away from his neck, their knees nearly together and their world closed in around them. It was private and obviously intimate to anyone who saw it. The scene made Jehan snap his mouth shut so hard his teeth clacked, a color rising up high in his cheeks.

 

He looked angry but the word _heartbroken_ was practically written across his face.

 

Grantaire pulled away and started toward the young blonde with only a semi-forced smile, “Hungry?”

 

“Famished,” Jehan bit out past his clenched jaw, glare still set on his leader, “Coming, Enjolras?”

 

“No,” the older man pulled his collar back up, “I think I'll skip this one.”

 

The boys hadn't left the room for more than a minute before Enjolras collapsed into a chair, boneless and spent from the encounter. He couldn't bring himself to even lift his head, his drive for picking up sputtering out.

 

And if his eyes were wet he'd never admit it.

 

***

 

Lesgle's house was warm and inviting from the sidewalk, each window glowing a low gold and covered by tasteful curtains. It was rather towering but his friend's family was a wealthy one and they weren't shy about stretching their good fortune out into their architecture. The porch seemed to be opening up into the yard, an invitation to come inside and enjoy the splendor.

 

Grantaire could feel chills working their way up his back and along his arms, goosebumps cropping up. He knew it was stupid to be afraid of a house but he couldn't stop his basic instincts. He had agreed to come and here he was. He needed to get through this. Just like seeing Enjolras. It had to be done.

 

He let himself in a few minutes later, a little more calm and more than ready to see his friends. He made his way down through the hall and caught the sound of voices drifting in from the living room. The ABC were all there except for Feuilly, Eponine, and Enjolras. He was happy to have Cosette rush up to meet him and wrap him in her soft arms, a kiss falling upon each cheek.

 

“A kingdom for a lady so sweet,” Grantaire chuckled as Marius approached, “You are one lucky knight. If I had found her first I would never bring her around this lot of horndogs. She's barely dressed!”

 

Cosette's blush crept up into the line of her flaxen hair, “Marius! You said this skirt wasn't too short!”

 

“It's not, I swear, he's just being a brat,” Marius drew him into a hug, voice lowering so the others couldn't hear, “Enjolras couldn't come. They're making him work late.”  


“Good, the less there is to see of him,” Grantaire straightened the ginger's collar as they pulled away, it hung strange around his neck like it was too big, “God, who dresses you?”

 

“You're one to talk!”

 

“There he is!” came a light declaration that caught his attention a moment before Jehan swept him up in another hug. He accepted it with a hum, wrapping his arms around the boy's slim shoulders and tucking his chin into his pale mop of hair. Though Jehan's affection for him may have stemmed from romantic love, he knew their easy friendship was stronger and it would hold strong through the storm of his refusal. When the younger pulled away, his smile was radiant.

 

“Feuilly says hi and he hopes you're feeling better,” Jehan informed him once he finally let go, “They're running him ragged at the factory.”

 

“Since when does Feuilly greet me through you?” Grantaire raised a brow with an obviously teasing tone. Jehan turned a little red around the ears and shrugged. The artist had his suspicions about the two of them and it seemed that something had brought them just a little closer together.

 

The others started gathering around and soon they migrated to the kitchen, snatching up snacks and beer and soda until their arms overflowed. They ended up dumping it all across the coffee table, taking off in random directions to search for blankets and pillows as well.

 

Their nest was half-formed when Jehan stopped to stare down at his phone, mouth gaping open at whatever he saw on his screen. Grantaire could see there was something more in the way his friend held himself so he came up to him, the classic _What's wrong?_ spilling from his lips before he could think of anything more clever to say.

 

“I didn't know Enjolras could do such a thing,” Jehan breathed.

 

“E?” Courfeyrac was frowning as he came over, looking over the blonde boy's shoulder, “What are you talking about? What did he do?”

 

“Nothing!” Jehan tried to shove his phone back into his pocket but Lesgle and Joly were on him like bees, buzzing around him until he was dizzy enough for their host to pluck the device from his pocket. He squawked and grasped at their hands to no avail, the pair of dark haired boys effectively stealing his phone and bringing up the picture he'd been looking at. The others strained to get a look and soon everyone quieted, each pair of eyes going steely in their own way before looking up at the poet.

 

Grantaire was the only one keeping their distance.

 

“Why the hell did he send this to you?” Bahorel barked, his usually easy-going grin a white slash across his face.

 

“I don't know,” it was a weak protest, “He just got my number and he likes to be a dick.”

 

“He sent you a picture from his hospital room, that's not really a mindfuck,” Combeferre cursed, snatching the phone up and shoving it into Grantaire's hands, “Here's our leader's handiwork in proof. Jehan, you're lucky it wasn't you.”

 

The picture on the device was of Montparnasse, indeed. His face was swollen and he had a stapled gash down his cheek and along his eyebrow, two stitches in his lower lip. He looked like a mess, the camera angled to show him standing in front of a mirror in a hospital restroom. The text below it simply read _can't imagine what I'd look like if I'd put my dick in._ The words churned his gut.

 

“What did he mean...you were lucky?” Grantaire asked slowly, turning to face the silent poet, “What did he _mean_ , Jehan?”

 

“He didn't tell you?” Courfeyrac's eyes flickered anxiously between the two men, hoping to avoid a fight, “He...nevermind, man, it's nothing.”

 

“He gave Montparnasse Enjolras's phone,” Marius stated coolly, obviously on edge as the secret was exposed, “It was because of him you got that text. He didn't tell anyone until it was too late.”

 

You could've heard a pen drop from ten feet.

 

Grantaire was sure he looked as stunned as he felt, “Jehan...is this true?”

 

“I'm...I'm so sorry,” Jehan's fingers were busy along the zipper of his light jacket, avoiding his friend's gaze, “I didn't know what he was planning and I didn't see the harm. If he'd even hinted at hurting you, I wouldn't have done it.”

 

The stunned feeling morphed and crawled through his veins until it was an icy resolve, “But it was alright with you as long as only Enjolras got hurt?”

 

“I really didn't know what he was planning! I'm sorry-”

 

“Stop, please,” Grantaire curled his finger at him, “Come here.”

 

Jehan obeyed and took a step closer without reluctance.

 

“Closer,” he urged, “I won't bite you.”

 

The second Jehan got within reach he was grabbed by the back of the neck and yanked forward so hard he lost his balance. Grantaire struck out, digging his fist so hard into the blonde's belly that the boy doubled over his arm. Jehan let out a gurgling moan, clear bile leaking from his mouth as the contents of his stomach threatened to spill all over the floor. Grantaire kept his grip on the boy's nape, fist a solid weight just below his friend's lungs.

 

“ _Now_ say you're sorry,” he demanded unyieldingly.

 

Jehan shuddered through his grip, “...s-sorry.”

 

Grantaire lifted him up, using the long sleeve of his shirt to wipe the blonde's mouth. He gently dragged him into another hug, this one more on the tender side. Jehan clung to him like a child, apologetic despite the agony burning through his torso.

 

“I love you so much, my poet, and I know you were scared,” Grantaire stroked through his hair, words suddenly souring as his fingers dug grooves into his friend's scalp, “If you ever let anyone hurt me like that again, I'll dunk your head in paint until your insides are royal blue. Do you understand me?”

 

Jehan pulled out of his grip, looking positively wounded, “You sound like Enjolras. He threatened to throw me off the railing.”

 

He wasn't surprised, he could almost hear the blonde saying it, “Then you've suffered enough.”

 

“I didn't want it to happen,” Jehan rubbed his stomach with an open palm, “They just said they were going to pull a prank on Enjolras. God, 'Taire, I've never seen him so angry before. If we're being honest, I'm surprised he didn't kill him. Any of them.”

 

Whispers of agreement fluttered through the ABC.

 

Grantaire felt his heart swelling up in his chest but it was a good feeling.

 

*****

 

A ringing phone had to be answered.

 

Enjolras stopped mid-step and pulled his mobile out of his pocket. He was heading out of the office when it started and he seemed to be alone in the stairwell, there was no harm in answering. The contact read _Father_ and he felt the frown marring his face before he could stop it.

 

“Father,” Enjolras answered briskly.

 

“ _I've gotten some rather nasty complaints about you putting some of my friends' children in the hospital._ ”

 

“I don't know what you mean,” he lied easily, knuckles twinging around the phone in reminder.

 

The older man actually laughed in his ear, “ _Only a son of mine could sound so cold when talking about reconstructive knee surgery_.”

 

“Oh?” Enjolras tried to sound a bit more convincing and less prideful, “That bad?”

 

“ _He'll walk, maybe even without a limp, but they're pretty bad_ ,” his father snuffled, “ _The cosmetic treatment for Montparnasse will cost his father quite a pretty penny. How are your hands, Enjolras?_ ”

 

“My hands?”

 

“ _Coy doesn't work for you._ ”

 

He scowled, “My hands are in fine condition.”

 

“ _Good, good_ ,” the joviality returned to his father's voice in a second, “ _No need for me to call the surgeon then_.”

 

“Of course not, Father,” Enjolras assured him bitterly, “I would never inconvenience you that way.”

 

“ _Quite right_ ,” his father sounded like he was settling into a chair, the fat sod crinkling the leather and making it creak through the receiver, “ _You may be a liberal cocksucker but I have always been able to say that you're independent. You can take care of yourself. It's more than my friends can say about their brats – you should've seen their faces_.”

 

There was a hardy laugh over the line that made his blood boil. Enjolras raked his hand through his hair before he pulled the phone away from his ear, fist coming up to slam against the side wall a few times above his head. Concrete bit at his flesh but he could barely feel it past the tightly-lidded simmer at _liberal cocksucker_. He only put the mobile back when he knew he could keep his voice even.

 

“Is there a point to this call, Father, or are you just ringing to accuse me?”

 

The air between them was dead for much too long.

 

“ _Did they deserve it?_ ”

 

Enjolras could honestly call himself surprised, “Hm?”

 

“ _Enjolras_ ,” he was impatient now, “ _Did they deserve it?_ ”

 

He glanced around but found no one within ear shot, “Every inch.”

 

“ _Good, that's all I wanted to know_ ,” his father cleared his throat, he could almost see him waving as if to clear the problems away, “ _No need to worry about their rebuke or official action. I believe everyone wants to keep it very hush-hush. You know how it is._ ”

 

“Unfortunately,” Enjolras tasted the syllables slowly.

 

“ _I just wish I could boast that my little bleeding heart took on four healthy ruffians and came out unscathed._ ”

 

“I don't suppose you know what they did?”

 

“ _Haven't the foggiest_.”

 

“And I'm sure you don't care?”

 

“ _Not in the slightest_ ,” at least he was honest, “ _All I need to know is that you're still a scrapper. I saw your bit in the paper a while ago and I had to hide it from your mother. You looked rather pathetic and I didn't want her bleating about it all day. How we should've raised you better, blah-blah-yap-yap, you know how she gets. Hours of it, enough to drive a man up the wall._ ”

 

Enjolras was quickly reminded of just how much he hated his father and why.

 

“Well I'm sorry to have disappointed you, but if you must know we got gender equality rights for that campus within the week.”

 

“ _Mm-hmm_ ,” there was a clink of a glass and ice, it was obvious he wasn't listening past his scotch, “ _What's that big one's name? Gueulemer? God, he had three broken ribs. Nearly punctured a lung! Oh, I believe this is the first time you've reminded me of myself when I was your age. Who says you can't be a hippie and a fighter? Must be all those classes you go to. I'm glad they're paying off. Not like those ruddy tennis lessons._ ”

 

“Father-”

 

“ _Not quite self-defense, but it's all the same in the end, really._ ”

 

“Please-”

 

“ _A hospital is a hospital is a broken bone-_ ”

 

Enjolras felt his stomach give a lurch, “I must be going now.”

 

“ _Of course. Go build some soapboxes or whatever you boys do._ ”

 

Enjolras hissed out a goodbye and hung up as quickly as could. His father always put him on edge but he felt like his lungs would collapse any moment. What he'd done, he'd done for justice so of course his pig-headed father had put his fingers in it. Polluting it. With the older man's involvement now in place he could've shot Babet point-blank on the street in daylight and he'd be in just as much danger of getting caught as he was now. Now his actions were something ugly.

  
It wasn't until he put the mobile down did he realize that his hands were shaking.

 

***

 

Grantaire tucked his scarf closer to his neck, keeping out the breeze. The hospital loomed over his head, getting closer and higher with every footstep toward it. He still didn't know what he was going to do or say to the Patron-Minette. All he knew was that he had to look into their faces, to see their pain first hand. He wasn't entirely sure he'd be able to resist the urge to smother Montparnasse in his hospital bed.

 

Nearby, Bahorel caught sight of the artist and stubbed out his cigarette.

 

“R!”

 

Grantaire stopped at the bottom of the steps, smiling when he saw his friend, “Hey.”  


“I've been looking all over for you,” the older boy moved to block him, “Let's get out of here and do something. We don't get to hang out enough.”

 

“Later,” Grantaire promised, trying to get around him and getting cut off at every attempt, “I came here to see someone.”

 

Bahorel pushed his bangs out of his face, the dark circles under his eyes looking almost painful, “I know why you came here.”  


“I want to see them,” he raised his chin, knowing how the boys didn't usually take him seriously, “I want to see what E did to them.”

 

“That is the worst idea I've ever heard, man,” Bahorel grabbed him by the arm, “Let's go get something to eat and forget about this.”

 

He yanked away, “I'm not leaving until I see them!”

 

“Well you're not getting in there.”

 

“What?” Grantaire scowled, “Are you going to stop me?”

 

“If I have to,” dark eyes softened, “Listen, this is some serious shit. E almost killed 'Parnasse and he really fucked up the other guys. You think their fathers are happy about this? Do you think their perfect little followers are thrilled? Enjolras could go to jail and if they catch sight of you right now with the iron still hot they'll slap an aiding and abetting or conspiracy charge on you.”

 

Grantaire's fire was snuffed out, “Are...are you serious?”

 

“Yeah, so let's get the hell out of here already,” Bahorel led him away by a hand on the shoulder, steering him back toward the busy side street.

 

“What about E?” he looked back at the hospital, “What will happen to him? What if-?”

 

“Don't worry about it, his dad handled everything.”

 

Grantaire dug his heels into the cobblestone, refusing to move another inch despite his friend's insistent tugging, “What?”

 

“Yeah, apparently he's proud of his cocksucking son but he swept it all under the rug,” Bahorel shrugged, the offensive words just falling from his lips, “Apparently having a kid that can whoop ass is a point of pride with those guys.”  


“His father...?” his expression soured.

 

“E isn't happy about it either but it's the way it played out,” Bahorel took his hand this time, touch purposefully soft, “We just need to stay the fuck away from them for as long as possible so this can all die down.”

 

They started walking away, pace slow but steady.

 

“Does his dad know what he covered up?”

 

“No,” he slowly let go once he was sure the artist was going to follow him, his hands busy pulling out a cigarette and his lighter, “But the rest of us do.”

 

“Everyone knows?” Grantaire asked, wordlessly turning down the offer of nicotine when one was held toward him.

 

“Didn't you know, man?” Bahorel lit up, taking a heavy drag, “You two are the sun and the moon right now. You're all we talk and think about. I think it's flattering, but Feuilly says it's creepy.”  


Grantaire ignored the pleased flutter that went through his stomach, “Do the others know what E did to them?”

 

“Know?” he laughed around a mouthful of smoke, “We all wanted to help. There's a few of us that don't agree with how far he took it, but we were all ready for the word to jump them.”

 

“The word?”

 

“This conversation is going to go a lot faster if you don't repeat everything,” Bahorel took another airy puff, “Your archangel wanted the first shot at revenge. He straight up ordered us to stand down until he gave the go-ahead. Then when the night came he told us to stay out of it.”

 

Grantaire reached up and ran his knuckles over his heated cheeks. He tried not to glow from the attention but it was hard knowing that his friends had been ready to defend his honor like that. His friends had always been a united front but it was very rare they were ready to rally on his behalf. He thought of Enjolras getting riled up enough to put someone in the hospital (let alone three) sent tendrils of heat down through his stomach. Grantaire found himself jealous of the Patron-Minette for getting to see the blonde at what might have been his most beautiful.

 

He made a note to start a true archangel painting in commemoration of the event.

 

“Trust me, 'Taire, we all wanted our pound of flesh out of them but I can't say I'm not relieved,” Bahorel led him around the corner, aiming for a coffee shop that had the best sandwiches, “Enjolras can handle himself but someone like 'Feyrac or Jehan? Can you see them in jail, even for a night? It'd be rough.”  


Cold realization washed through him, “I didn't want anyone to get hurt because of me.”

 

“You didn't think we'd want revenge too?” Bahorel threw an arm around his shoulder, “You think E is the only one who loves you?”

 

Grantaire ducked his head, teeth grazing the edge of his lip, “Enjolras doesn't love me.”

 

“Mm-hmm,” Bahorel slapped a sloppy kiss on the artist's temple, “You sure you don't want a cigarette?”  


He could still remember Enjolras's look of disappointment and concern when he'd lit up in front of him. Even after everything, he he couldn't give in.

 

“I'm sure.”

 

*****

 

“What about these?” Eponine lifted a bundle of what looked like small white roses to her hair, cocking her head enticingly, “They match my eyes.”

 

“And your ego,” Grantaire chuckled, fingertips dancing along the tongues of a few birds of paradise, “They're pretty.”

 

His phone went off. He uttered a quick apology and a smile before answering it. He lost sight of Eponine as he continued to walk along the rows at the outdoor flower market, palms skimming the sides of the wooden boxes.

 

“Yes, this is he,” he replied idly, eyes flickering from one color to another.

 

The news came through with an efficient, clipped tone and then they hung up.

 

Grantaire clicked off the phone, tucking the device (so much heavier now) back into his pocket. The breeze picked up, his curls tickling across his forehead and ears from where they peeked out from beneath his hat. A sob broke free from his chest, shaking him.

 

Negative. He was negative across the board.

 

Eponine rushed up to him with an armful of white lilies, concern etched all over her pretty face, “What is it? Are you hurt? Please don't be having an allergic reaction. What's wrong?”

 

“Nothing,” he scrubbed the back of his hand over his eyes before he smiled at her, “There is actually _nothing_ wrong with me.”

 

“Well, let's thank the powers in the sky with as many flowers as we can find,” Eponine lifted them up, letting him catch their scent, “We can sketch them and then leave them in the park, hm?”

 

Grantaire leaned in, brushing their noses sweetly, “Sounds good to me.”

 

*****

 

Grantaire was actually whistling as he made his way up the stairs to the attic of Les Amis. He'd slept soundly the night before, not one single nightmare had plagued him. They were mostly the usual shadows but now there was laughter and the sound of clicking camera shudders. It was the first meeting he'd be attending in almost a month. Ever since their encounter where he'd kissed and rubbed the make up from Enjolras's neck, he'd been on edge. He was both terrified and relieved at the thought of still being in love with his Apollo.

 

To be honest, his heart was so deeply woven within Enjolras that it would be nearly impossible to extract it. Now or ever.

 

Grantaire checked his phone and discovered he was a little earlier than he was supposed to be, despite the muffins he'd scarfed down in the kitchen with Fantine. He came to the top and spotted someone new. A tall, leggy blonde with perfectly styled hair and tight jeans that hugged a very shapely ass. It was short up the back of the neck and with graceful swoops on top that suggested-

 

Grantaire's mouth dropped open like a fish and his skateboard clattered to the floor.

 

 _Curls_.

 

It was Enjolras who turned around to face him, the folders he'd been going through were still scattered across the table. His hair was chopped, beautifully butchered. It was like a stun gun to the chest. His decadent, Greek curls were gone in replace of something more modern and fresh. Something new.

 

Enjolras watched him stare for a while before ran a hand through the newly shorn locks, “You're making me self-conscious, 'Taire.”

 

“What did you do?” he asked, trying to stay calm.

 

“You painted me with a gods' curls,” Enjolras explained softly, “I wanted to be different than that. Maybe something more than what you made of me on canvas.”

 

“No...” the artist swallowed dryly, eyes sticking to the sweep of gold, “No canvas can capture you, Apollo, you know that.”

 

The older boy's smile was kind of sad, “I don't.”

 

“You know that means I'll have to change the painting again,” Grantaire laughed breathlessly, “I can't have inaccuracies in my work!”

 

Enjolras tried to share the laugh but it came off weak, “I don't want to be anything like that painting, if you don't mind.”

 

“I don't,” Grantaire echoed his words back at him.

 

“I don't want to hurt you anymore than I already have,” the blonde's hands were twisting nervously in front of him, the rubber band around his wrist getting yanked at, “I don't want to push you...I don't even know if you feel like you did before.”

 

“I don't know,” Grantaire replied as honestly as he could, each word painfully plucked from his throat like a burr from jeans, “I loved the old Enjolras who practically ignored me. This new one gives me all sorts of attention and it terrifies me. I don't know what I want. From you or myself.”

 

The ravenette knelt down and grabbed his skateboard, “But I never really wanted anything from you in the first place. Loving you was my selfish hobby. A bad habit I couldn't quit.”

 

Enjolras's face fell, his whole demeanor collapsing the moment he heard his love in a past tense. His hands dropped to his sides and his shoulders slumped rather uncharacteristically.

 

“An artist's heart is in his habits,” there was just a sliver of hope left in his voice, “Is your habit of me...broken?”

 

“Broken is a strong word,” Grantaire's lips twitched upward, “Habits get picked back up again. Sometimes they come back with a vengeance.”

 

The revolutionary dared to perk up at that.

 

Couferyac's light footsteps didn't register until he was at the top, the boys behind him and all but pushing him into Grantaire, “R, man, you're blocking the door.”

 

“Sorry,” Grantaire moved quickly.

 

The ABC swarmed in, buzzing around Enjolras like excited bees to a new flower.

 

“Much better,” Feuilly declared, examining the style closely, “Your hair gets way too curly. You were starting to look like one of those cartoon baby dolls.”

 

“I though it was very 1800's,” Bahorel proclaimed proudly, a fist on his hip.

 

“Claiming history as your major does _not_ mean you can pinpoint hairstyles, numbnuts,” Lesgle teases, capturing him in a headlock and digging his knuckles into his greasy hair.

 

While the others cooed and commented on the drastic cut, Grantaire found a seat farthest from the front where the blonde would be conducting the meeting. He started to smile, his first real once since he found out about his negative results. It was slow going, then grew so big it actually hurt his jaw.

 

And if there were tears in his eyes, they were only from happiness.

 

*****  


It was a just a few days later when Enjolras felt it, the first creep of illness. Stress had sunk into every vein and bone, infecting him from the inside out. He'd ignored it for a few days but eventually biology and nature had worn him down to a nub, a fevered mess that was barely able to stumble into his apartment. He was whoozy, his head was throbbing, and something inside him felt off. It was more than just a cold.

 

Enjolras shed his bag at the foot of his bed before taking out his phone to tap out a message.

 

**Need help. Don't feel good. - E**

 

Enjolras laid down with his phone still in his hand, convincing himself he'd only rest for a few minutes before he'd take a hot shower. While imagining how good the water would feel, he fell asleep.

 

A minute later, his screen lit up.

 

**You idiot. Drink water, eat some soup. Don't fall asleep. I'm getting my stuff, I'll be over in a few minutes. - Joly**

 

***

 

Grantaire crumbled up his fourth attempt at wings, throwing the crumpled ball of expensive sketch paper across the room. Every time was the same. They weren't feathery enough, they were to songbird-y, or they had no definitive bone structure. He didn't want abstract concept appendages, he wanted the real things enveloped in ash and flame. It wasn't difficult, he'd drawn dozens of birds before and they'd looked fine. But something about this new project was screwing him up. His head wasn't in it. Or may for worse, his heart.

 

His phone went off and he picked it up on the second trill.

 

“This is the artist formerly known as R,” he drawled, flipping to a fresh page with his free hand.

 

“It's me.”

 

“Yes, Jol, it's you,” he picked back up his sketch pencil, “Was it not supposed to be? Are you pulling a Jason Bourne/Treadstone thing? Maybe a Quantum Leap?”

 

“It's Enjolras.”

 

“Are you a god now?” Grantaire laughed at his poor joke, “Has our fearless leader possessed our shy doctor? Shall I call a medium or a maybe a-?”

 

“Grantaire.”

 

The serious tone stopped him cold.

 

“Yes, Joly?”

 

“Enjolras is sick,” the medical student explained, “He fell ill the other night and I've been at his apartment ever since. Thankfully I managed to nick a few things to keep him from the hospital but he's not looking good.”

 

“How bad is it?” he inquired gravely, setting his supplies aside and standing up out of his drunk nest.

 

“His temp hasn't been below 103 since I got here, I've no idea what it's been in the past few days. Apparently he waited until he couldn't stand it any longer to call me. Physically or emotionally,” there was a bitterness in the usually happy young man's tone, “I found him asleep in his shoes. He's malnourished, his blood pressure's through the roof, his sugar is dangerously low, and he's got the worst tension migraine I've ever seen. I had to give him Zofran just to get him to stop throwing up. He's wrecked.”

 

Grantaire heard a wounded noise and for a moment he thought his friend was crying. But no, it had came from his throat. He didn't want to but he couldn't help but imagine his Apollo bed ridden and struggling in his fever, writhing amongst crisp sheets. It was as arousing as it was worrying.

 

“What...what can I do?” he found himself asking.

 

“I know you two have been fighting,” Joly almost sounded relieved that he'd asked, “I know he's a bastard and he hurt you. I wouldn't be calling except...”

 

“Except what?”  
  
“He's been crying your name and babbling about you since I woke him. For the past two hours he's been asking for you in his sleep. I don't know what to else to do and he needs to calm down. I was hoping you could come over and talk to him or something?”

 

“You want me to...?” he wasn't sure how to finish that question.

 

“I know he broke your heart, R, but he didn't mean to,” Joly sighed, “I'm not asking you to forgive him. I'm just asking you to see him.”

 

Grantaire didn't need any convincing, he was already putting on his shoes.

 

***

 

“Thank God you're here,” Joly all but pulled him through the doorway, “You won't have to stay long. I pumped him with a little midazolam to get him to calm down, so he should fall asleep fast.”

 

“Whoa!” the ravenette tried to dig his heels in but it was useless, “Isn't that the basic bit of what they use to put you under for surgery?”  


“It's fine,” Joly assured him, then lowered his voice, “In small doses.”

 

“What?”  


“He'll be fine!”

 

He's not getting any better because he won't calm the hell down. I can't get him to eat anything.”  


“What his problem?” Grantaire grumbled as he was led down the hall, the one he'd only looked at when he'd come over to dinner.

 

“He's upset and grumpy,” Joly opened the bedroom door, gesturing him to go ahead, “Good luck getting him to do anything but grunt at you.”

 

Grantaire turned to tell him exactly where to stick his bossy attitude but snapped his jaw shut when cooling packs were shoved into his hands.

 

“Everything else is in there,” Joly assured him, “I'll make some food.”

 

“I'm not-”

 

The door shut between them.

 

The room smelled like that earthy mix of cinnamon and musk, but there was a new tang of sterile cleaner. Like Joly had wiped down every surface with medical strength disinfectant. There was something poetic about being there in the heart of his love's life, the core of his scent, the room he dreamt in. But this wasn't the time for that.

 

Grantaire took a few deep breaths before he dared to turn.

 

Enjolras was on the bed, sprawled on his back with a rather plain blanket cutting a line across his cut waist. His chest ( _all that tan flesh, unmarked, begging for the scrape of his teeth_ ) was slick with sweat, beads pooling in the groove of his collarbone and the dips of his throat. He had an arm across his eyes; damp, tarnished gold tresses peeking out from beneath it. The older boy was whining deep in his throat, lips parting only to release a soft groan. He looked to be in real pain. Beneath the sweat he was flushed, his sun-kissed cheeks ruddy from the fever. The color seemed to spread to all the hidden skin beneath the blanket.

 

“Oh, Apollo...” Grantaire sighed. He'd only head of Enjolras getting sick like this twice before, once before they met and once right after. He could still remember Joly bitching and moaning about how the blonde would get caught up in an issue he couldn't deal with and he'd overwork himself to this point. He hadn't seen him last time, they hadn't been close then.

 

It destroyed him and he wasn't sure he wanted to see it ever again.

 

“R?” Enjolras croaked, arm falling down onto the pillow. His face was a sweaty mess, like he'd been on one of his jogging sessions instead of laying in bed for hours. The older boy tried to sit up, his arms visibly trembling under his own weight. His brow pinched up as he nearly fell back into the covers, his body too weak to keep him up for more than a few moments. All his grace was gone.

 

“Yes, I'm here,” Grantaire assured him, walking over and dumping the packs on the bed before plopping down in the chair beside it, “You're giving Joly grey hairs in there.”

 

Enjolras hummed, a dopey smile he'd never seen before curling his plump lips. It was shocking to see emotion so blatantly smeared across his handsome face.

 

“Hi,” his voice was painfully raw, like he'd been snacking on bits of sandpaper.

 

“Hi,” Grantaire sighed, picking up one of the wider packs and cracking it, “Stay still for a second.”

 

“Are you going to be my nurse?” the blonde watched as the pack was wrapped in a soft cloth before it was laid across his pec, “It's cold.”

 

“Do you want me to nurse you?” the older boy immediately nodded, the eagerness of the gesture made him smile, “Then suck it up.”  


“Love that you're not afraid of me,” Enjolras muttered as the other wet a different cloth with a water bottle, “ 'Ferre's the closest one but you don't take my shit.”

 

“You're going to embarrass yourself if you're not careful,” Grantaire warned, washing away the old sweat in hopes of making him more comfortable.

 

“Don't care,” the blonde stretched his neck out trustingly, heat radiating off the flesh in waves, “You always get under my skin. What's one more, hmm? That feels nice, R, 's good with your hands.”  


Golden lashes fluttered closed, smile softening as he finally relaxed, “Paint...sketching...so stupid good at it.”  


“Well, Apollo, some of us were meant to speak and others were meant to draw,” Grantaire's heart was soaring from the compliment and he wanted to stomp it back down, a punishment for how easy it was to forgive the orator, “If you could paint your cause, you would be unstoppable. You would ascend to the heavens and leave us poor mortals behind.”

 

“Hercules stayed in that Disney movie,” Enjolras turned his head, letting the younger boy wipe his cheeks, “I would stay. Even if you guys tiptoe around me, I care too much about you to leave. You lot are all I have. Only ones who will put up with me.”

 

“You can be quite bristly,” the ravenette conceded, his knuckles brushing against heated skin with a sort of shock, “Jesus, E, what have you done to yourself?”

 

Enjolras let him lay a hand over his forehead, a little coo escaping him as the back of the artist's hand pressed to his cheek, “Hot.”

 

“You are,” Grantaire cracked another pack, wrapping it up before slowly laying it down across the blonde's firm stomach, “Is that okay?”

 

Enjolras's eyes cracked open. His eyes were pools of stormy grey, the usual brightness of them glazed in the grip fever. He stared at him with an intensity that had managed to stay intact through the sickness.

 

“ 'S cold,” the blonde's hand raised, “Come 'ere.”  


Grantaire leaned in and the older man grabbed his forearm, fingers heartbreakingly gentle as they curled along his skin.

 

“I know you don't love me anymore,” Grantaire felt his heart crack behind his ribs at those words, “But could you play something?”

 

“Please don't say things like that,” the artist begged, blanketing his hand.

 

“I'll stop if you play.”  


“You're a manipulative bastard, ill or not,” Grantaire still couldn't quite catch his breath, “I didn't really bring anything with me.”

 

“Mm,” he growled, nodding behind him. Grantaire turned around and saw the guitar in the corner for the first time. With a few more gentle urgings from the groggy blonde, he got up and went over to pick it up. It was a beautiful acoustic with dark, polished oak along the board and the body like silk beneath his fingertips. He plucked a small tune to test it and found nothing short of perfection poured out of it, like the strings had been well oiled and it'd been tuned by someone with a good ear.

 

“This is a really good piece, E,” Grantaire came back, carefully laying it against the bed before taking the seat again, “I didn't know you played.”

 

“Don't, 'm no good at it,” Enjolras laughed breathlessly, voice slowing down as a wave of “I got really drunk and ordered for you...last year on your birthday...got embarrassed, 'n that brat got you that flute thing from that computer game you like...mine seemed stupid.”

 

Grantaire remembered that occasion perfectly well, though he'd drunk enough for three men that night. Enjolras had popped in on his party toward the beginning, giving him a brief hug and a happy birthday before asking if they could speak privately. At the time he'd assumed it was about some artwork for fliers but thinking back the older boy had seemed almost anxious. He never got to speak to him because just as they were easing out of the busy living room, Jehan had arrived like a force of nature and had swept him up in his arms. He'd presented him with a handmade, clay ocarina and a booklet of songs from the Zelda games.

 

It was the first time Grantaire had actually forgotten about Enjolras being in the room. He'd been so excited and drunk that by the time he'd remembered to seek the orator out, he'd already left.

 

“It's beautiful,” he wasn't sure what else to say, “You really want me to play?”

 

Enjolras tried to say something but he lost his words in a groan. He rolled over on his side, almost on his stomach, curling around himself and knocking the ice packs to the coverlet. His arm was curled around his middle, the word _hurts_ squeezing out from between his lips.

 

Grantaire hushed him as best he could, scrambling together everything he'd ever seen Joly do in hopes of recalling a solution. The only thing he could think to do was lay a hand on his clenching belly and rub while the other relaid the packs across the older boy's hip and nape. As he tried to massage out whatever was ailing him, Enjolras seemed to calm down enough to open his eyes again.

 

“Please play,” the blonde murmured, a reckless hope softening up his strong features, “I-I can't sleep and you sound so pretty when you sing. You look so...happy. I wanna see it.”

 

Grantaire dropped his face into his hands, breath robbed from him by the unbearably sweet words. How long had he pined for a moment such as this? How long had he dreamed fragrant dreams of Enjolras yearning for his voice in such a way? In his loneliest fantasies, he'd imagined the proud blonde on bended knee in apology for his behavior and begging for his forgiveness. Now Enjolras was looking up at him with wet, pleading eyes and all he found in himself was the desire to pull him up into his arms and kiss the pain away.

 

“Please?” Enjolras' dragged a large pillow to his chest and burrowed into his, shoulders going rigid, “You're still so mad...aren't you?”

 

“Only because you have no idea what you do to me.”

 

The blonde's eyes fell shut, “I've...destroyed everything, haven't I?”

 

Grantaire was once more at a loss. His love looked wrecked beyond repair and here he was, with the tools to fix him, and he was frozen in place.

 

“I'm sorry,” he was resigned now, “Y-You don't have to stay.”  
  
It was that, that slight stutter, that broke down the last of his resistance. The ravenette plucked up the guitar and settled it over his lap, moving to push back and away to give them some distance. Enjolras moved faster than he thought possible, tan digits curling around the chair arm and dragging him back.

 

Grantaire reached out and steadied him, forcing him to lay back down, “Stay still! Joly's pretty sure you're head's going to explode so I was trying not to blast you with music.”

 

“I want you to.”

 

“I can almost see your headache,” the artist argued.

 

“I'll stop,” Enjolras swore, “Just don't leave.”

 

Grantaire reached out and laid his hand along the side of the older boy's head, easing it back down on the pillow, “Close your eyes and try to sleep.”

 

He was eager to obey, closing his eyes and settling back into his pillow. It was painfully childlike and Grantaire locked the memory up for later, something sweet to keep him warm in the early hours of the morning when the world was pitch and destitute. Under the pressure the pressure to sing, the only song he could remember was the one he'd heard the day he'd met Eponine. It had come up on Pandora the moment she'd walked into class. She'd been wearing butterfly barrettes in her hair, a flowy skirt, and her smile had been so dazzling that he'd immediately thought, ' _If I were to marry, it would be to her_.'

 

“ _I'm not always like this. It's something I become. A terrible weakness, in my nature, in my blood_ ,” he sang softly, fingers barely plucking out the tune, “ _Save me, oh save me, save me – from myself._ ”

 

Enjolras hummed, reaching out blindly. By the time his fingers touched the edge of the bed, so close to touching the ravenette, he'd fallen asleep. The long line of his body went boneless, harsh breaths evening out, his face smoothing out.

 

Grantaire continued to softly play for a few more minutes, watching the blonde carefully until he was sure that he was asleep. He needed to get out of there and have a drink, talk to Joly, watch some crap cable, do anything but stare at the sleeping demi-god in front of him. He needed to rethink the past few weeks, he needed to reevaluate the decisions he had made in regards to his love's intentions. Had he truly been so blind? Had Enjolras been telling the truth as he knew it?

 

He got up and laid the guitar against the wall, wondering what kind of cheap beer Joly had in the fridge. The moment he took a step away a low pitched whine filled the room, shooting him straight through the chest. The older boy was frowning again in his sleep, lines carves deep into his cheeks as his hand bunched up in the sheet.

 

“Shh,” Grantaire soothed, kneeling beside the bed and carefully taking the blonde's tense hand, “ _Where was I? Hmm. The blackout approaching, here it comes now – wish me luck. It's all over, it's all over, it's all over in a flash._ ”

 

Overburdened and exhausted from just the hour he'd been there, Grantaire laid his head down on the bed. He kept singing, the sound growing fainter as his chest and eyelids grew heavy. Enjolras's hand was so warm and the room was still full of cologne, swaddling him and stuffing his head with cottony thick feelings of adoration.

 

 _This would be nice to have_ , the thought danced between them, shared and coveted in that deliciously honest way only sleepiness could bring.

 

***

 

An hour later, Joly found them just like that. Sleeping soundly, heads almost together, fingers still interlaced. He ducked back out with the bowl of broth, praying Enjolras got a solid four hours before the drugs wore off.

 

***

 

It was almost eight hours later before Grantaire woke up. The night had settled hard on Rouen, blacking out what little sky peeked through the blinds. He managed to pry his eyes open and found his own earthly Apollo's nose pressed into his hair, breath stirring the dark curls.

 

“Enjolras...” the artist muttered, squeezing the other's hand that was so lovingly curled around his own. He leaned up, dropping a kiss on the back of his tan hand. Bracing his free hand on the edge of the bed, Grantaire bussed the chastest of kisses over his love's lips. They were like embers against his mouth, the sun itself spilling from him.

 

The fever still had him, then.

 

“Cold,” Enjolras whispered, still fast asleep. True to his words, goosebumps had cropped up all along his arms. Grantaire hushed him and got up to fish around in the drawers for a shirt, trying not to invade his privacy. He found a grey t-shirt and brought it over, speaking softly as he urged the blonde to wake enough to sit up. Eyes still closed, the blonde raised his arms and stayed still as the artist pulled the shirt down to cover his bare chest. The lukewarm packs from earlier were dropped to the floor, out of the way.

 

“There we go,” Grantaire laid him back down, “Go back to sleep.”

 

The older man muttered something about the riot act before he was gone again.

 

Grantaire cracked two new packs as quietly as he could before they were lain on top of the shirt over his ribs and back. Enjolras muttered a bit but didn't awaken this time, the drugs keeping him thoroughly under. With a last kiss to shorn golden tresses, he left.

 

Joly was out in the living room perched on the couch, the window behind it pushed open to let the breeze in off the street. A cigarette dangled from his shaking fingers, the smoke coiling and disappearing through the screen.

 

“I didn't know you smoked,” Grantaire frowned, walking over to sit down on the low table in front of his friend, “You're always going on about how terrible it is for us all, and you're such a good student of medicine – this might be an offense against Mercury himself.”  


“I just don't know what to do about him,” Joly ground the heel of his palm into his eyes, smoke leaving a trail across his face, “I've been telling him for almost three weeks to take care of himself. I saw that he wasn't eating, Courfeyrac said he wasn't sleeping either. Apparently he's been texting everyone at three and four in the morning.”

 

“Is he any danger?”

 

“Not physically, he's in great shape,” Joly took a hit, face pained as the smoke filled him, “But who knows what's going inside his head. I just wish he'd learn how to deal with non-political, emotional problems. He's like a child when it comes to things he can't fix with rallying and petitions. You can't get people to sign signatures to eradicate frustration or hurt.”

 

The drawn boy stretched his arm out on the back of the couch, using it as a pillow for his head, “I wish I knew what he's been going through. His pain's on the inside and I-”

 

It takes a moment for the rest of the confession to slip out.

 

“I'm worried that he's hurting himself too deeply for me to heal.”

 

Grantaire dropped his head, hands laced in his lap to keep them from shaking.

 

“I don't know what's wrong with him. That stupid, beautiful idiot,” Joly muttered around a mouthful of smoke, eyes cutting toward the artist, “Do you have any idea what's been bothering him?”

 

“Well...” his knuckles were white from his tight grip, “He's been trying rather hard to make up the party incident with me. He's apologized but he walked out when I needed him most, and he's always been so stoic toward me.”

 

Joly's lips pursed but he didn't interrupt.

 

He ducked his head in shame, “I guess I've been too busy enjoying the attention to realize how sincere he's been.”

 

“ 'Taire.”

 

“I know, it's stupid,” he scraped nails through his curls, noting the way they clung to his fingers, “But it feels like rightful penance. I love him. I appreciate him more than the air I breathe and I've always let him kick me around. I didn't mind being his whipping boy when he wasn't texting me about my day and inviting me to dinner. But he's been kissing me and telling me how much he wants to fuck me and it's more than I could've ever hoped for.”

 

He groaned into the cusp of his knuckles, “The bastard's made me fall even deeper in love with him. I hate him for it and I've been taking it out on him the only way I could.”

 

“Well...” Joly took a long drag off his cigarette before stubbing it out on the window in a petulant rebellion, “Good for you.”

 

Grantaire's mouth fell open, “You can't be serious?”

 

“If he cut you that deeply, let him suffer,” it was a rare, spiteful moment for Joly, “ 'Prick love for pricking and beat love down', as it were.”

 

“It's wrong,” the younger argued.

 

“Yes. It is.”

 

Grantaire stood quickly, “I need to go. I-I've got a lot to think about.”  
  
“Mm-hmm,” Joly laid his head back down, “I'm going to wake him in an hour or so, get him to choke down some broth. He'll be fine.”

 

“I'm glad I could-” he winced, “Well, I didn't exactly help.”  


“You've done more than you know,” Joly promised, “Let me drive you home. It's nearly three.”

 

“Okay.”

 

***

 

Enjolras woke in the middle of a moan, temples throbbing so hard it made him heave. He threw the pillow off his face and threw himself over the edge of the bed, grabbing the bucket Joly had put there for him before tossing his stomach contents within it. _This_ was why he hated being sick. His body couldn’t handle synthetic drugs. He needed organic, hippie cures or his whole system revolted.

 

As his stomach stopped cramping, he knew that those natural remedies wouldn't have helped with how far he'd worked himself.

 

Enjolras took a bottle of water off the table and took a few, tentative drinks. Just enough to soothe his throat. He went to lay back down but stopped when he spotted an empty space in the corner. The guitar he'd secretly bought for Grantaire was gone, a negative space left behind. He felt a flutter of panic in his ribcage before he realized it was laying against the wall beside the bed, propped up.

 

Still a little weak, he rolled onto his side and grabbed the neck. What was it doing here? Has he moved it? He examined the instrument like it would give up the secrets. He could still hear someone singing, lyrics to a song he'd never heard flittering through his head. They were sung by a sweet voice he couldn't quite put his finger on.  


“ _It's all over the papers, on the TV, wagging tongues. The artist's impression looks just like me only...better.”_

 

Oh.

 

Grantaire had been there. Singing to him, soothing him, putting him to sleep. A hot rush of blood flooded his face, setting off another spasm through his body. The guitar dropped to the floor just a moment before his hands clenched around the bucket, the water he'd just drank coming back up.

 

Someone knocked on the door.

 

“Go away!” he pleaded before he threw up again, bile burning harsh paths up through his throat.

 

“No,” Joly pushed open the door, sighing at the sight of them, “You remembered that R was here, didn't you?”

  
“How dare you?” Enjolras rasped, fingers trembling along the rim as he tried to hold it steady, “You let him see me like this?”

 

“You weren't sleeping, you wanted him! What do you want from me?”

 

“To protect my-” he was dry heaving now, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes.

 

Joly scrubbed a hand over his eyes, “I'll go get some more Zofran.”

 

“Oh you do that!” Enjolras barked at his retreating back, “Some friend you are! I'm so close to fixing all this and you let me talk to him without a filter?! Without thinking? I-”

 

Joly just rolled his eyes as more gagging sounds came from the bedroom.

 

More sedatives as well, then.

 

*****

 

It was three more days before Grantaire saw Enjolras, or anyone for that matter. He'd never admit it but he was hiding, hermiting, drinking and sketching in his own form of meditation. He drew bits of pieces of people and places from memory, sometimes climbing up his high ladder and gazing out at the city. No matter how many times he traced the steam off a mug or smudged shadows in alleys, he always came back to mapping the iris's of passionate eyes and carefully scratching out the fine bones of strong hands.

 

By the time someone knocked on his door, it was early evening of the third day and he was surrounded by odd bits of his Apollo. Unkempt and smeared up to the elbow in charcoal, Grantaire got up and walked to the door. He expected Combeferre to yell at him for missing class or Eponine ready to punch him in the nose for screening her calls and texts. The last person he thought it could be – it was.

 

“Oh good, you're home.”

 

Enjolras was pale around the edges and his eyes were a little sunken, but he looked loads better than he had in his bed. He seemed to have lost a pound or two. He looked like the embodiment of a fallen star, exhausted and bright-eyed. He carried himself with just as much authority as he always had, broken fever and illness be damned.

 

“You look better,” Grantaire's lips quirked up, “Did J level you out?”

 

“I received a full check up and my grade was passing,” Enjolras assured him.

  
“Just passing?”

  
“I was cleared to come here, class, and Les Amis. No further,” the blonde raised his chin, humor fading just a bit as he continued, “I wanted to apologize for inconveniencing you the other day. Joly told me I was rather insistent.”

 

The artist leaned against the door, “Don't you remember?”

 

“You being there, yes,” Enjolras's cheeks flagged with color, “Throwing a tantrum before he shot me up with that awful horse tranquilizer, no.”

 

“So...” the tension in the air was starting to nip at his skin, “You didn't ask for me?”  


“I've been wanting to see you for days, just not like that. Not when I said so many stupid things and couldn't keep my mouth shut,” the blonde was clearly too embarrassed to go on.

 

“You were delusional and couldn't sleep,” Grantaire offered, “I was happy to help. Though I didn't know you were a fan of my singing.”  


“I adore your singing,” Enjolras blurted out, knuckles tightening bone white across the strap of his messenger bag. An awkward, uncomfortable silence stretched between them. A few moments becoming a full minute, then two. They both kept taking in quiet gulps of air like they were going to say something, but they chickened out every time. They wanted to admit so many things but the moment seemed wrong. There was still some bad blood lingering between them.

 

 _I've always loved you_ , Grantaire confessed with his eyes, _I want to hate you but I can't. You're perfection in my eyes. You're beautiful. I want you._

 

 _I can't make you happy_ , Enjolras admitted with the constant twitching of his digits up and down the strap across his chest, _But I want to try. I want you in my bed and in my kitchen and by my side. I want to know everything I never bothered to ask about. I want to know if I love you_.

 

“Don't stop coming around,” the older boy finally said, “Don't push us out like this. Please don't push _me_ out.”

 

“Of course not,” Grantaire promised the moment he stopped speaking, teeth grazing his lower lip for a moment, “I'm sorry I haven't come much lately. Is there one tonight?”

 

“There is,” Enjolras was quick to answer as well, eagerness pitching up his voice.

 

“I'll come then.”

 

“Good,” he nodded tightly, “Great.”

 

Another pregnant pause threatened to choke them.”

 

“I could drive you,” Enjolras offered, thumbing behind him.

 

“I'd love that but the weather's great and I have to shower,” Grantaire's smile was sincere as he realized just how stilted the whole exchange was, there was so much they weren't saying and it would've come off humorous to anyone watching, “I do love to board when it's cool like this.”

 

“I noticed,” Enjolras tried his hand at a smile.

 

The artist wrapped his hand around the doorknob, “I'll see you in a couple hours then?”

 

“Of course,” Enjolras took a step back, both hands on his bag now, “Be careful.”

 

“I always am.”

 

“Promise me you'll have someone drive you home. I don't want you on that death stick so late at night,” the blonde sucked in a noisy breath, “I mean...I would feel more comfortable with it. If you don't want to that's your choice.”

 

“I'll have Bahorel drive me,” Grantaire saw him frown and the protectiveness of it all warmed him, “If he hasn't been drinking.”

 

“I'd prefer Bossuet,” Enjolras shot back, reigning himself back in almost instantly, “But-”

 

The artist raised a hand, quieting him, “Lesgle it is. I'll text him now.”  


Enjolras nodded, “Till tonight, then.”

 

The golden man retreated on quick feet, leaving him pleased and tingling.

 

Maybe things weren't as horrible as he had been painting them.

 

Remembering the painting still perched up high by the window, Grantaire turned to address it, “Did you hear all that? Gods can admit defeat. Who would've known?”

 

The shadowed Apollo was silent, judging, almost finished.

 

“Oh, what do you know?”

 

* * *

 

**Did you like it? Did it make you feel? I hope so. Drop a line, let me know :) Excuse my needy ego**

**Gifsets for the chapter:[Pascifist!Enjolras](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/63867378786/youre-a-fucking-pacifist-enjolras-how-the-hell), [Bahorel with Grantaire](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/63868070601/you-didnt-think-wed-want-revenge-too-you-think), [Shorn Locks of Apollo](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/63870214569/what-did-you-do-you-painted-me-with-a-gods), [What Grantaire Left Behind](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/63870660776/its-all-over-the-papers-on-the-tv-wagging), [Enjolras on the Phone](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/63871003811/quite-right-you-may-be-a-liberal-cocksucker-but)**

 

 


	17. The Revolt - Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras may have just lost everything.

**Please forgive all spelling mistakes.**

**ANNOUNCEMENT! This fic plus my new E/R fic "What Will Become Of Me?" has a blog all to itself. All the gifsets, all the quotes, all the stuff will be[here](http://paintandcrabs.tumblr.com/).**

* * *

 

Enjolras and a few other left wing “leaders” had an informative rally planned for Sunday, hoping the day of rest was something their enemies would honor and it would remain peaceful. They were expecting a modest attendance and it had been all the ABC could talk about for two weeks. Groups from a bunch of surrounding cities were coming, most from colleges like their own while others came from underground watering holes. Despite the negative whispers Courfeyrac had started to pick up a few days before, they stayed positive about it. For the first time in a long time, the entire group could make it. Except for Eponine, but as usual she had volunteered to stay by the phone in case anyone needed bailed out. Thanks to her parents shady police records, she had a nose for trouble and the moment she thought they would get wrapped up in something she tended to step aside.

 

At two in the morning on that Sunday, Grantaire found himself on speaker phone with Enjolras while he tried to expel his stomach through his mouth.

 

“ _You're not going_ ,” Enjolras stated quite firmly over the line.

 

“I-I-I-” Grantaire heaved, smacking the edge of the porcelain bowl as he got his breath back, “I'm fine. It's just some food poisoning. I'll be better by the afternoon.”

 

“ _You're sick, and I don't want you pushing your health for something you didn't want to go to in the first place._ ”

 

“You heard that?” the raventte scowled, spitting the sour taste from his mouth, “You know I don't like these 'make love, not war' things. It's all petitions and frilly speeches. The only person I like to hear rant about things I partially agree with is you. Those guys never hold a candle to you and everyone knows it.”

 

“ _This isn't going to be nearly as hands-on as you like_ ,” Enjolras sighed loudly, the speaker scraping like he was switching ears, “ _I know you think it's useless, but getting the word out is more important than getting arrested for the cause. It's about unity, awareness, showing people they're not alone._ ”

 

“Yet I've never seen anything come fr – oh God,” Grantaire nearly came off his knees as the spasms took over him. It was a few minutes before his horrible gasping died down and he could talk again.

 

“Oh sweet baby Jesus who only existed as mortal man with good ideals,” Grantaire groaned, pushing away from the toilet so his back could rest against the wall. That got a laugh from Enjolras and it was kind of worth it.

 

“I'll...ugh,” he put a hand on his roiling stomach, “I'll be there with bells on.”

 

“ _No_ ,” the older man stated, “ _You'll be sitting this one out at home_.”

 

“But-”

 

“ _Grantaire_ ,” Enjolras tisked, “ _I don't want to see you there. I won't be able to concentrate unless I know you're resting and recovering._ ”

 

“Enjolras,” he snapped back, “You can't keep me from going.”

 

“ _Oh for God's sake!_ ” the blonde barked impatiently, something like a book thumping closed over the speaker, “ _Come if you must! Just stay out of my way and try not to fall over._ ”

 

There was a pause.

 

“ _Drink plenty of water. But not too fast or it'll just irritate your stomach further_ ,” Enjolras grumbled, voice low as his concern took over his frustration over the artist's stubbornness, “ _Take something to help you sleep. Just one pill, though, don't overdue it. And for the sake of hygiene, sleep in your bed instead of that filthy pile of sheets you call a 'nest'. Goodnight._ ”

 

When he hung up, the ravenette was smiling. It had been a little over a week since he'd tucked the fevered blonde into bed and left him. He'd gone to the meeting he'd promised to go to, he'd even been the one to design the flyers Combeferre and Courfeyrac were planning on handing out later that day. The rally was important to Enjolras, it was the only thing he'd been texting and talking about for days. He wanted to go. He wanted to support his Apollo.

 

His stomach lurched, threatening to send him back to the toilet.

 

Maybe...maybe he would just stay home.

 

***

 

Grantaire groaned, turning over and shoving a pillow over his head. His phone had been ringing one and off for almost twenty minutes, the same sound each time. It was Jehan's tone. His stomach had settled down around eight and he'd only been asleep for-

 

He lifted the pillow to catch a glimpse at his alarm clock.

 

It was barely one in the afternoon.

 

Grantaire growled, shooting up, “Fuck off!”

The phone rang defiantly, still on the floor beside his sketchbook where he'd left it. He scrubbed both his palms over his face, raking up curls and rasping against his day old stubble.

 

“Fine!” he barked to himself, throwing off the covers. He scrambled down the ladder and snatched the mobile off the floor. He answered it with a harsh greeting and a angry huff.

 

“ _Grantaire!_ ” Jehan was almost screaming through the receiver, trying to be heard over the roar of a crowd, “ _Don't come down! Everything's gone to shit over here!_ ”

 

“What?” Grantaire put a finger in his ear, trying to hear more clearly.

 

“ _It's not a rally, it's a riot,_ ” Jehan was panting hard, like he'd been running, “ _It's two blocks full, it's insane! Some severe right-wing brawlers showed up, they turned it, everyone's fighting just to get out! The police are coming and people are screaming._ ”

 

“What happened? How did it turn?” the ravenette demanded.

 

“ _I don't know, it was really fast,_ ” the younger boy let out a grunt, it sounded like someone had thumped into him, “ _I'm scared, R. Someone tackled Courfeyrac and a couple of big guys grabbed Enjolras – I think they were Montparnasse's men. I think this whole thing was planned or something_.”

 

“Where's Enjolras now?”

 

“ _I don't know. I haven't seen him since they took him down and everyone's split up – shit!_ ”

 

“Jehan?!”

 

“ _They showed up,_ ” the blonde sounded horrified, “ _We're all going to jail, I know it. Fuck!_ ”

 

The line went dead.

 

Grantaire had a choice. Right now, in this moment, there was a crossroad. He could go down there like an idiot, try to find his friends and help his love, or-

 

Oh, who the fuck was he trying to fool?

 

Grantaire threw a hoodie over his head and grabbed his baggiest pair of jeans, the material hanging loose around his thighs and feet. He stuffed his feet into his most comfortable shoes and grabbed his board, taking off out the door without a second thought to his keys or back up.

 

***

 

Jehan hadn't been lying. He'd hit a wall of people a block from the rally point and had been forced to leave his skateboard behind. Everyone seemed to be shouting, opposing views tossed at people just as fast as fists were. From the different accents his ears picked up, these people weren't just from Rouen. With the rough pronunciations, French didn't seem to be the first language of some of them. He ducked and hugged the wall as best he could, trying to find his way to the open courtyard the ABC had chosen to gather.

 

Combeferre shot out of the crowd, grabbing him by the shoulders. His glasses were long gone and his knuckles were scuffed up, his shirt torn at the collar. He looked more alive than Grantaire had ever seen, his usual calm shattered in replace with this puffing bull of a man. It was a good look.

 

“You have to get out of here,” Combeferre pointed back toward where he'd come, “Take the alleys now. The police are setting up and they are more than serious. They have mounted officers and they're in full suits, I think I heard dogs. They're already sectioning off the quarter, they've broken it up into slices and it's not long before they move in. They must have heard about the brawling and the size because they brought rubber bullets. The big ones.”

 

“Shit,” Grantaire looked around frantically, “Where are the others?”

 

“I have no idea,” Combeferre scraped a hand through his hair, eyes bright, “I – we – this wasn't supposed to happen.”

 

They both spotted a familiar mop of dark curls clamped down under someone's thick arm.

 

“Hey!” Combeferre took off at a run, “Let him go! _'Feyrac_!”

 

Grantaire continued, heading for higher ground. There was a balcony near the fountain, water shooting up so close that a mist had settled over it. He hurried up the steps, getting up out of the crowd in just moments. He hands wrapped around the edge, eyes desperately searching for blonde locks in the crowd of a hundred or more.

 

“Enjolras?!” he bellowed down below, desperate to be heard. His voice seemed to get swallowed up by the others, disappearing into the uproar. His fingertips dug into the cement, the stone practically vibrating under the rage of so many people. From here he could see how the police were sectioning off the streets. They had already begun to detain those on the edge of the crowd, working their way to the violent center.

 

It wouldn't be a half hour before they had this place cleared out and everyone in handcuffs. They may have called the French cowards in the rest of the world but they weren't ones to let a riot go on for very long, not anymore. Every time they did, someone got killed.

 

Grantaire squinted, catching sight of the rubber bullets his friend had spoken of. He could vividly recall Courfeyrac going over all the different kinds of weapons they could have, gauging their pain level on a scale of one to ten. Those bullets in boxes, the ones they were setting up just behind police lines on the edge of the courtyard, were a nine-point-two.

 

“ _They could shatter your face, destroy your groin, puncture an organ, collapse your lungs. At close range, you could die before you hit the ground. They say it's nonlethal.”_

 

Feuilly and Enjolras had exchanged a look then, matching frowns marring their faces. They'd seen a few men die of less in riots that got out of hand and they were always quick to call bullshit on “nonlethal” weapons used by police. Any soft-handed weapon was deadly in the hands of an officer with a grudge on college boys who had nothing better to do with their time than start trouble.

 

“Apollo,” Grantaire leaned over the railing, eyes dancing from face to face in hopes of seeing anyone familiar. Joly, sweet Jehan, Feuilly, soft Marius, Bahorel, his long standing companion Lesgle, 'Ferre and 'Feyrac, or his sweet sun god. They were all out there somewhere. In trouble or not, he couldn't know. Not from here.

 

Somewhere in the middle, a big guy went down. Then another. Large, broad-shouldered men. There was a fight more serious than the others, a splash of crimson on golden flesh.

 

“Apollo!” he cried, hurrying back down the steps and shoving people out of his way. He took a few elbows trying to get through but he soon came upon the fallen men, none other than Enjolras taking down a third with just his hands. The man had a horribly bloody nose and a busted mouth, the stuff caked in his hair on one side and dripping down his chin. His collar was ruined with it. He looked wild, more so than Combeferre had appeared.

 

“Enj?” the men were still stirring, “Let's go!”

 

“What are you doing here?” Enjolras asked, dazed as he let the artist pull him through the crowd and away from the men who had attacked him, “I thought you were sick. I looked for you.”

  
“Jehan called and told me everything had gone to hell and he was right,” Grantaire stopped only when he was sure they were far enough into the crowd to keep from being spotted. He turned on the older boy and started to look him over, roughly checking his hands for broken bones before going to his ribs. He'd seen him take a few serious blows while he'd been on the porch, he didn't want to take any chances.

 

“You shouldn't be here,” those hands shot up and held his chin, dropping his head back until he stared up into the man's bloody face, “You need to get out of here.”

“Everyone keeps telling me that but my place is here, beside you,” Grantaire grabbed those hands once more, pressing a hard kiss into his palm, “We need to get the others and run. The police are in the streets, they've already taken the block.”

Enjolras snapped back into himself, nodding as he remembered the rest of the ABC. He whipped his head around and immediately found a set of brunettes.

 

“Bahorel! Bossuet!” he waved, catching their attention. The two men, so alike in looks yet so different, ran up and showed off their matching black eyes.

 

“Did you know he could fight?” Bahorel was laughing hysterically, thumbing at his friend, “Little scrapper, this one!”

 

“He grabbed me by my hair like a woman, could you believe it?”

 

“I couldn't.”

 

“Where are the others?” Enjolras asked, grabbing them both the shoulder, “Are you alright?”

 

“We're fine,” Lesgle stood on his toes, “That's Joly! He's got our poet!”

 

The medical student appeared like he'd been summoned, Jehan clutching his hand and following him with tears in his eyes and a bruising jaw.

 

“They got Feuilly!” the blonde sounded more raw than he had on the phone, like he'd been screaming, “He was just defending us and they slapped cuffs on him like a common criminal!”

 

“I had to drag him away kicking and screaming like a child or else they would've got him too,” Joly was actually shaking from the adrenaline rush, “Oh God. Does anyone have a spare inhaler? I think I'm going to faint.”

 

Grantaire had turned away from the others, taking a few steps into the crowd just as it started to thin. They were shouting about something, running from it. The edge of the square came into view, the police line appearing like smoke through the cracks of civilians. They were fearsome and faceless, those terrifying riot guns set up on each end.

 

“E?” he rasped.

 

“This is madness, even for me,” Bahorel waved his hand at the crowd around them, barely missing some woman's face, “I'm done.”

 

“Agreed,” Joly had two fingers on his pulse and an eye on his watch, red claw marks down his forearms like someone had grabbed a hold of him, “I'm going to pass out, I know it.”

 

“Apollo?” Grantaire said a little louder, eyes widening as the crowd thinned out enough for him to see the riot shields of more than a dozen officers.

 

“I'm not leaving without Combeferre and 'Feyrac,” Enjolras didn't hear the artist as he kept scanning the crowd, the group's back to appearing line as they scanned the crowd for the two boys, “Has anyone seen them? Did they get picked up?”

 

“The last time I saw them, 'Feyrac had a busted jaw,” Lesgle admitted, rubbing his own, “I think they were on the edge somewhere.”

 

The blonde ran a hand over his mouth, smearing scarlet all over his jaw, “Has anyone seen-?”

 

“Enjolras!” Marius ran into his arms, relief in his voice.

  
“Christ,” Enjolras clutched him hard for a moment before pushing him back to examine the younger man, “Are you hurt?”

 

“I've been running since this started,” Marius was wheezing, face flushed so dark they couldn't see his freckles, “We need to get these people under control.”

 

“It's too late for that.”

 

“It's not too late!” the ginger protested fiercely, “We can take it back! We can show the police we're not animals!”

  
“Look at me!” Enjolras shook the boy, “Look at Jehan! Think of Courfeyrac out there! It's out of our hands and at this moment we _are_ animals. Now quit being a child before you get hurt and let's go!”

 

They all heard the call of warning from the force but they didn't realize it was the last call. Bahorel and Lesgle tried to convince Marius to leave as well. Grantaire eased back, eyes fixed on the devices that looked like boxes of grey stones. His back brushed Enjolras's and he blindly sought his hand, fingers curling through the blonde's own and holding tight. He tried to warn him but all that left him was a great rush of air.

 

For a moment, his vision swam and he swore he saw red. A flag, a jacket, his painting.

 

The guns went off with all the boom of a canon, shocking everyone in the clearing. The ABC ducked, Enjolras's hand falling from his friend's as he dropped to his knees and covered his head. Cries of agony swept the square, people stumbling and falling while clutching themselves. Jehan went down hard, Marius jerking sideways like he was punched in the shoulder, and Bahorel staggered back while clutching his suddenly bloody palm. The eruption was followed by what sounded like falling gravel, clattering further off against the fountain and the walls of the buildings.

 

They had no idea what had happened until Bahorel started yelling, “The bastards shot me in the hand! What kind of fucker shoots a guy in the hand?!”

 

“They're firing!” someone screamed before the crowd whipped themselves into a frenzy.

 

Joly dragged Jehan back to his feet, the blonde clutching his leg as little crimson flowers bloomed through his jeans.

  
“I'm fine, I'm fine,” Marius's protested, voice revealingly high-pitched as Lesgle tugged down his collar to reveal a carved circle of flesh, “Oh shit, they hit me. They shot me!”

 

Tears leaked from his eyes as he reached for the blonde, “E-Enj?”

 

“It's okay, it's okay,” Enjolras assured him, taking his forearm and clutching it as he looked back at the police line, “We've got a minute, let's go!”

 

Lesgle was frozen, he'd gone white in the face, “R?”

 

Enjolras followed his gaze, breath leaving him in one great huff like he was the one who'd been hit.

 

Grantaire was on the ground, spread out on his front with his hood bunched up all around his neck like he was sleeping. Just a moment ago he'd been holding his hand, pressed against his back, safe. Thoughts of Marius and everyone else flew out of his mind, memories of Grantaire flooding in to replace them. Vulnerable flesh wrapped up in blankets and sleep warm. The man ripping off his hat and laughing so hard his hair bounced. Arguing at Les Amis, having him perched on his lap, stealing him from those lecherous bar flies, listening to him sing. The night he both saved him from an awful act and destroyed their fragile relationship, all within a few hours. Finding him in the crowd just now, being so ecstatically relieved and terrifyingly worried in one breathtaking moment.

 

“ _You can't just kiss whoever you want and then you say you didn't want it, you bastard!”_

 

“ _You do so well at that. Distance. From Mount Olympus to Earth.”_

 

Everything he'd ever taken for granted swallowed him up, taking him out of the courtyard and into himself. All of it branded with the image he had now.

 

Enjolras dropped to his side, reaching under him with a gentle hand to feel around. Something hot grazed his digits and he yanked back to discover them covered in sticky blood. He realized all at once why the others had been hit and he'd remained untouched.

 

Grantaire had been behind him, he'd protected him.

 

“God above...” he ran his fingers over his mouth, tasting the tang of the younger man's lifeblood, “What have I done?”

 

* * *

**And that is...well, that. Tell me what you thought, my loves. As always, because I can't help myself, the gifset is[here](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/64826188820/grantaire-had-been-behind-him-hed-protected)**

 


	18. The Revolt - Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ABC flee from arrest, bleeding for their cause.

“Oh God,” Jehan was clutching his leg, tears finally cutting paths down his cheeks at the sight of his friend, “I-Is he...?”

 

“R?” Enjolras murmured, laying a hand on the boy's shoulder blade. True fear cracked his voice, only years of carefully hiding his emotions keeping him from breaking down in the middle of the fleeing crowd. The ravenette was unresponsive beneath his touch, sending another cold trill up through his chest. He could hear Joly yelling to just grab him already but he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, until he knew his friend was okay.

 

Grantaire's hand twitched before it clawed across the ground, a sharp gasp coming from him.

 

“R?” Enjolras asked again, rubbing his shoulder as carefully as he could manage. He felt the boy hitch in a few breaths, chest expanding under his palm before a long whine escaped him. The boy rose like a cat, back hunched as he got up on his elbows.

 

“ 'Lo?” Grantaire groaned, looking over at the blonde with wet eyes, “I think I...they...”

 

There was blood soaking through his hoodie and pants, at least a dozen red spots spread over his body. The boy's entire form was trembling, eyes glassed over and arms threatening to give under his weight.

 

“Enjolras!” Joly was already helping Jehan limp away, “Grab him!”

 

“E?” Grantaire moaned in agony as the man's strong hands urged him back on his knees “I can't, just leave me, my legs – I can't feel them.”

 

Enjolras grabbed his chin and delivered a swift kiss to his protesting mouth, lingering long enough to whisper, “I've got you, baby, just hold still. This is going to hurt.”

 

Grantaire cried out as he was pulled up into the blonde's arms bridal style, arms coming up to wrap around his neck. He buried his face in the older man's plaid shirt, digging his teeth in the material to keep from screaming as his entire to torso throbbed and burned in protest. His legs were still numb and he wished desperately he could run but Enjolras seemed to carry his weight just fine, his pace matching the others as they fled the scene.

 

Enjolras held his precious bundle tight, the feel of him alive and injured in his arms giving him the shot of adrenaline he needed to get them out of there. Lesgle and Bahorel flanked him, keeping the swarm of people from jostling their injured friend anymore than necessary.

 

The six of them nearly bowled Combeferre over. He had a red nail marks across his face and a groaning Courfeyrac piggy-backing on him. The dark haired boy looked a mess, rubber bullet marks showing through his clothes as well.

 

“That section's closed,” Combeferre threw his head behind him, “Where are you going?”

“To the over-wall alley, the one we always bump into trying to get around,” Enjolras matched him step for step toward the direction he'd indicated, “One of us goes out, grabs the van, and swings around to collect us.”

 

“And we'll be?” Bahorel prompted, arm laced through the shocked Marius to keep him moving.

 

“Hiding,” the orator shoved his chin toward what looked like just another building front, “There. Follow me.”

 

Cradling Grantaire as close to his chest as he could, he led the others around the corner that could only really be seen from the side. The alley was narrow and long, leading out toward a parking lot. Police cars whizzed past the small opening, lights flashing. They got halfway before they came upon an open screen door that lead into an empty apartment.

 

“Who looks fine? Who's hands are steady?” Enjolras inquired, “Bousset?”

 

“Okay,” Lesgle crossed himself, squeezing past the blonde, “Give me ten minutes. Maybe more.”

 

“We'll have an eye on you,” he nodded assuringly, “You'll be fine.”

 

“Don't run,” Combeferre advised, shifting his friend a little higher on his back. Enjolras was about to agree when he heard someone closer than before, someone just outside the opening.

 

“Inside,” he hissed, mentally ticking off everyone who went through before ducking inside himself. It was a dark dining room, a mercifully perfect cover.

 

The others settled where they wouldn't be seen from the door. Bahorel taking the window to keep an eye out for their way out. Marius was pushed into Joly's care to talk him back down from wherever he'd worked himself up to. Jehan sat next to them, hands still fluttering around where he'd been struck.

 

Combeferre carefully set his load down, cradling the limp form in one arm as he tried to rouse him.

 

“ 'Ferre?” the ravenette whispered, lashes fluttering.

 

“You're a hot mess, my friend,” Combeferre laughed weakly, digging his glasses cloth out of his pocket to mop up the blood on his smooth face, “Are you with me again?”

 

“What was I doing?” Courfeyrac let the blonde hold him upright, too tired to sit up on his own.

 

“You were fighting,” the older boy was careful as he cleaned up his pink mouth, “You won.”

 

“I did?” Courfeyrac grinned, dropping his head back, “What's the other guy look like?”

 

“Awful, I swear to you.”

 

“Did I get shot?” he looked at himself, going a little green around the gills, “D-Did I get shot? Am I dying? Where's Jol? I'm-”

 

Combeferre smoothed his friend's hair back, dropping a kiss on his cheek in hopes of calming him down. Courfeyrac quieted with a little squeak, knuckles coming up to weakly brush the spot that had been touched. The older boy glanced at the door as shadows passed by, the chatter of police radios following them.

 

“W-What are we-?”

 

“Shh,” he laid a finger to his lips, “We're hiding. We'll be safe in a few minutes.”

 

Exhausted, Courfeyrac rolled into the older man and hid his face in his neck. Combeferre flushed up to his hairline but after a moment he held him in return, keeping him close. He rested his chin in his bird's nest of hair, praying they got out of here and that no one was worse off than they appeared.

 

The moment they got through the door, Enjolras knelt down and carefully ( _I'm sorry, 'Taire, I know it hurts, it's okay_ ) sat the younger man against the wall. Grantaire collapsed against it, gasping softly as he slowly stretched his legs out.

 

“Let me see,” Enjolras curled his fingers just under the thick material of his hoodie, “Please?”

 

Grantaire nodded, swallowing wetly as the other dragged it up. The first look at his own stomach made him groan. There were bloody welts painted like targets all over his chest, a particularly nasty one near the hardened flesh of his nipple. The flesh was carved out, crimson welling from them with each breath. They were all purple beneath the red, blue coloring in whorls around each one. He wouldn't be comfortable for at least two weeks, there was no way.

 

“You...saved me from this,” Enjolras lowered the cloth, hand coming up to cup the artist's neck instead, “You could've been hurt worse, if you're not already. You could've-”

 

“ 'S okay,” Grantaire slurred, pain keeping the smile from his face, “You didn't see it coming. You're already banged up. I couldn't let them shoot you.”

 

“And it's okay if they shoot _you_?” Enjolras growled out, quieting once he saw the start of the police coming down the alley. He grabbed Grantaire's hand and put it on his arm, squeezing over it.

 

“Hold onto me, dig your fingers in as hard as you can,” Enjolras kept his voice at a breath, “But keep quiet.”

 

Grantaire's stomach clenched and sent bolts of hot agony all through him, he shook his head, “I'd rather have another kiss.”

 

“Take what you need,” the blonde offered up his mouth, kissing him firmly to keep both their gasping as quiet as possible. He savored every moment of it, one ear tuned for danger while he assured himself that the artist was there. Grantaire was quiet until he accidentally dropped his hand onto his own thigh, right on a wound.

 

Enjolras could taste the scream a moment before it came. He shoved the side of his hand between the boy's teeth, taking a handful of raven curls with the other and urging him to bite down. Grantaire did – with a vengeance. Enjolras dropped their foreheads together, clenching his eyes shut as the tips of the artist's canines hit the nerves in his muscle and bone. But he was quiet and that's what they needed.

 

“I'm never doing this again,” Marius whimpered from the corner, “Never. _Never_.”

 

“You don't have to,” Joly had torn off part of his shirt and was using it to press down on the boy's wound, “No one's going to make you.”

 

A few more policemen ran by, none of them dared to breathe.

 

“What if they'd been real bullets?”

 

Marius's voice was soft like a child's, the question weighing heavy on their minds before sinking into their stomachs. What if they _had_ been real bullets? What if the rally-turned-riot had gotten even further out of hand? What if people had brandished knives and guns instead of just their fists?

 

Grantaire was staring up at Enjolras pleadingly, looking for comfort while the whites of his teeth were still buried in the older boy's hand.

 

Enjolras pressed a dry kiss to his forehead, “We'll be out of here in a moment and you'll get patched up.”

 

The artist was clearly thinking of Courfeyrac's description of internal bleeding, “What if something inside me busted? W-What if-”

 

Another searing kiss was pressed to his mouth, quieting his fears like a quick breath to a flame.

 

“You're fine,” Enjolras stated, “And if you're not, so help me God – I will snatch your soul right out of the air and shove it down your throat. You cannot leave. Not after I thought you already had.”

 

Bahorel made a sound like a cooing dove, “There's our pugilist now. He's backing the van up.”

 

“Joly, you first, your hands are open,” Enjolras held out his arms, silently encouraging Grantaire to hold onto him despite the artist's murmurs that he could try and walk, “Hush. Combeferre, Marius, Prouvaire, then us, and you take up the rear.”

 

“Aye, aye, captain,” Bahorel breathed, still standing with his back to the wall and head cocked out the window, “He's ready.”

 

“Go.”

 

They were quick and efficient under orders, those injured piping down and making their way along the alley. There were still people romping around out in the courtyard and leaking into the parking lot. But it was more authoritative shouting now, the wail of sirens ringing in their ears. Bravado aside, none of them wanted to be arrested, not with one of them already gone and two of them seriously injured.

 

Joly yanked the doors open and hopped inside, settling on one knee to help the others in. Combeferre managed to slide his friend into his arms before crawling in, laying him in his lap so their medical student could have a look at his head. Marius helped Enjolras and together they got their second injured spread out along the back.

 

Bahorel left maroon finger swipes all over the door handles as he slammed them closed.

 

In less than a minute, they were out of the lot and on one of the side streets. They panted together, unspoken prayers and tension swirling thickly around the back of the van.

 

“Lesgle,” Joly's voice was getting steadier as he slipped into his caretaker role, “You need to stop by a market and get as many plasters as you can. We'll need more antiseptic, thread, pain killers, and ice packs. There's going to be a lot of swelling. And everyone's going on a two week antibiotic regimen and I won't hear otherwise!”

 

The last was shouted and everyone quickly nodded, agreeing.

 

“Those things are filthy,” Joly muttered through clenched teeth as he manually monitored Courfeyrac's pulse, “Grantaire? Are you still awake?”

 

“Mm-hmm,” the artist nodded, head cushioned by Enjolras's hand.

 

“How bad is your pain on a scale of one to ten?”

 

“Eight,” Grantiare tried to sit up and choked down a yelp, “N-Nine.”

 

“ 'Rac? How about you?” the medical student smacked his friend's face, getting him to jolt out of his daze, “Pain scale? One to ten?”

 

“Five or nine,” the boy murmured before drifting off again, dark lashes fluttering against his flushed cheeks.

 

The van went over a bump. Grantaire shot up, knuckles dug deep into his mouth to keep from crying out like he wanted. It had hurt twice as much to move. The older boy grabbed him up into his arms, resting him half in his lap and laying him against his shoulder. The embrace was warm and smelled like copper but it was the best thing he could ever remember feeling.

 

“Enjolras,” he tried to catch his breath and his composure, “I'm okay.”

 

“You better be,” was muttered right into his ear, the caress of breath in his hair taking some of the sting out of his torso.

 

Bahorel was holding his (now shaking) hand out, fingers flexing weakly, “No one mind me, I'm just trying not to lose my fucking hand over here!”

 

***

 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac had agreed to move in with each other a few months ago ( _“Strictly as friends”, Courfeyrac had adamantly defended to the rest of the ABC_ ), and their place was technically the largest and most private. They had no neighbors above or below and no one was going to question almost a dozen injured boys filing through the yard.

 

Joly was completely in his element as he settled everyone into their places, 'Feyrac and Grantaire spread out on couches while Marius and Jehan were shoved in chairs. Their medical student did a quick assessment and put everyone on a list from worst to 'can wait' in his head, pulling shirts and pants off with with haste to find the worst of the wounds.

 

For the first breathless half-hour, no one but Joly quite knew what to do with themselves.

 

After most of the blood was mopped up and pain killers were shoved down eager throats, they seemed to come back into themselves. Under Joly's quick direction, Lesgle cleaned and wrapped up Bahorel's hand and their softest's shoulder. Marius was calmed and soothed with copious gulps of wine, between breaths he still declared that he'd never go to a rally for as long as he lived.

 

“Here,” Joly shoved a bottle, cotton balls, a small gauze wrap, and a pack of bandages into Enjolras's blood-stained hands, “There's nothing in the wounds so just clean them, put a little dressing around them, then put a bandage on.”

 

“But” Enjolras looked down at the supplies with a furrowed brow, “Shouldn't you do this?”

 

“I'm pretty sure 'Feyrac has a broken hand and Jehan's kneecap looks strange. I think it popped out of place. I might have to actually take them to the hospital. Enj, look at me,” Joly grabbed the sides of the older boy's face, “Since none of you will see a doctor, I'm your primary care physician and your psychiatrist. You need to make sure Grantaire is okay right now or you're going to slip into shock. That's why you're wheezing like an asthmatic right now and shaking like an old lady.”

 

He couldn't deny either things.

 

“You two are making me sick with all this dancing around. You guys have made me drink, and smoke, and fight you every step of the way. I've watched you both string each other along. I think I _actually_ have a tumor now, and I'm naming it after you,” Joly tried to smile but it was hard when he had his friends blood speckled all over his clothes, “Go over there. Do whatever you need to do to make that brilliant mind of yours to shut the fuck up. And after your done, no matter what happens, clean yourself up. You look like you tried to eat your way through the crowd.”

 

Enjolras ran his tongue over his teeth, tasting pennies along each curve.

 

“Okay.”

 

*******

 

Usually Grantaire would be horribly self-conscious in a room with all his good-looking friends in nothing but his shorts, but whatever Joly had given him had kicked in and his nerves were nonexistent. He had an arm over his eyes, blocking out the light as he tried to breathe through the residual pain. The cool air felt good against the new holes in his body. Joly had checked him all over, gauging tenderness and taking his vitals to check for anything inside. He'd been cleared as non-fatal very quickly and it had been a relief off his shoulders.

 

Now he was just enjoying not wanting to cry for the first time in almost an hour.

 

Unfortunately, shock may have knocked him unconscious (according to Joly – and he believed him) but it didn't take his memory. Behind the veil of his eyelids he could still see the police line, he could still hear the firing and smell the smoke. He couldn't imagine what actually getting shot would feel like but he could guess it was pretty close. The impact of the blows had rocked him on his heels but hadn't taken him, not at first. He hadn't been able to breathe, that part was clear as crystal. His lungs had hollowed out and squeezed up tight close to his throat, refusing to open to the powder-infused air. He'd looked down at himself, numbness taking his limbs from the toes up as blood bloomed across his clothing.

 

Grantaire had picked his hoodie up to see his stomach. It had been the gush of blood from four bullet-sized holes that had robbed him from the world, sending him to his knees before he'd finally let go of his Apollo's hand. The moment before he hit the ground, the second he felt those digits slipped from his own, he thought he heard more gunfire and the screams of young men – no different than himself.

 

He'd tasted blood.

 

And then Enjolras was rousing him and the universe had come back into sharp focus. The simple grounding touch of a hand on his back had been more than welcome because when he'd seen those wounds, he'd been sure that was it for him. Apparently so had the others by the way they kept shooting him wide eyed looks.

 

“R?”

 

“I haven't heard you call me that so many times in one day since you heard Bahorel say it,” Grantaire croaked with good humor, “I can still see your face. It was all scrunched up and you couldn't believe someone could go by a letter, let alone one that didn't start a name.”

 

“The boys broke me of that rather quickly,” Enjolras knelt down beside the couch the boy was laid out on, “Apparently all our mothers decided we needed long, traditional names that are hard to yell or use in casual conversation.”

 

“Well, we do come from the rich and the mighty,” the artist dropped his arm back onto the couch, squinting and blinking up into the light. His eyes struggled to focus but when they did they found the bloody image of his Apollo, stained from battle and still so radiant.

 

“Hey,” the older man lightly touched his air, relief spread across his face, “Have the meds kicked in?”

 

“I can breathe again,” Grantaire answered, eyes dancing over his friend's messy face, “Are you okay? Is your nose broken?”

 

“Joly's said I'm perfectly fine,” Enjolras struggled to keep his hands steady as he cracked open the bottle of alcohol, “He wants me to clean these. Are you okay with that? Do you mind?”

 

Grantaire nodded, though his cheeks colored as he remembered he didn't have pants on. There were two or three on each of his thighs but his chest had gotten it the worst, and every one of them needed to be cleaned. He stretched out as carefully as he could, giving him all the room he'd need.

 

“Rubber bullets are barbaric,” Enjolras wet a cotton ball and started on his task, wincing every time the younger boy made a sound, “We could've all been killed. I saw the dogs they were bringing out. They looked positively vicious.”

 

“Is 'Feyrac okay?” Grantaire acquired, sighing hard as the blonde worked, “He looked bad.”

 

Enjolras glanced over where two of his best friends were, one on his back while the other held his hand and watched over him. Joly was putting two of Courfeyrac's fingers in a splint, checking up his arm for anything else that might be broken.

 

“I think he'll be alright as well. You need to concentrate on yourself.”

 

His fingers grazed a particularly deep looking bruise and the younger feinted like he was going to jerk away. Enjolras went to draw back but a pale hand circled his own, laying it back down.

 

“It doesn't hurt that bad,” Grantaire half-lied, going for charming, “Not when it's you touching me.”

 

“You're hopeless,” Enjolras could feel himself slipping, “How did you ever get you so wrapped up in me when all I ever did was hurt you?”

 

“It's a good hurt,” the artist promised, “Like scratching a bug bite.”

 

The blonde looked entirely unconvinced but his hands went back to disinfecting, earning him a few more squirms and low hisses.

 

“If you had any self-preservation, you would've stayed at home where you were safe,” there was an edge of anger there now, “I told you not to come. You were sick and you were fine right where you were at. Why the hell did you go down there when you knew it was out of hand?”

 

“I thought you were in trouble,” the ravenette replied meekly, clawing at the couch cushions as the alcohol seared his wounds.

 

“So you decided to throw yourself into the fray?” he snapped, “You risked yourself when I could've very well been a mile away!”

 

Enjolras bit down on his tongue, taking a few deep breaths before continuing, “Though foolish...it was a brave thing you did.”

 

Grantaire couldn't believe his ears, “You're upset because I was brave?”

 

“Yes, I believe I am,” Enjolras didn't care for the bitter, metallic taste clinging to his mouth, “Maybe if you were a bit more selfish, you wouldn't be laying here.”

 

“But you would,” the ravenette frowned, “ I...I remembered 'Feyrac telling us that those things could kill someone. And you weren't paying attention...one shot to the kidneys and you would've been gone.”

 

“Grantaire,” the orator growled to himself as he started laying the gauze and bandages, “I hate when you say things like that. Like you're not important. My kidneys could withstand a knock or two. Your heart, however, cannot.”

 

“My heart can take more kicks than you could imagine,” it was self-deprecating and he bit down on his lip the moment he said it. They were quiet as Enjolras covered the rest of the little, round wounds up. The blonde finished and he drew his hands into his lap, letting them dig nervously into his jeans.

 

“I'd take a bullet for you.”

 

Grantaire partially sat up, elbow braced on the couch, “What did you just say?”

 

“I would fall for France, but I would for you as well,” Enjolras blurted out stupidly, “Back there, I saw you laying on the ground and I wished nothing more than it was me there instead. I thought they had slaughtered you at my feet and I wanted to take your place to keep it from being true. What is wrong with me?”

 

The younger blinked at him, mouth gaping like a fish as he tried to think of something to say.

 

“I push and pull you like a toy and yet I demanded that you see me for more than a figurehead or a statue,” tears welled up in the orator's eyes, “I make great claims of lust and caring but then I break them, all in one breath. I can't convey myself the way I want to so there has to be something wrong inside of me. Something's broken in my heart that won't let me show someone how much I care. It's always been like that.”

 

Droplets fell from golden lashes and disappeared into denim, leaving behind perfect little circles.

 

“I can't tell Marius how much he means to me, how happy I am that he's in love,” the words tumbled out now, a damn broken, “I can't say how proud I am of everyone or how much I value them. And I can't make you happy.”

 

He looked up at the artist, face crumpled in agony, “What's the point of pining like this when I can't even tell you how much you mean to me?”

 

Grantaire grimaced and sat up completely, legs on either side of the kneeling blonde. He reached up and laid a palm on each side of his golden throat, resting his thumbs in the perfectly shaped hollows. The man shuddered like a starting car underneath his touch, looking as if he'd break into a million pieces if handled too roughly.

 

“Enjolras,” he spoke his full name rather slowly, savoring the way his tongue curled around the letters, “Tell me now.”

 

The man shook his head, “I've hurt you so much-”

 

“You'll hurt me even more if you don't let out whatever is tearing you up inside,” Grantaire pointed out, desperation rubbing his nerves raw, “Please...I just need to know where we stand. I need to know what you want of me.”

 

“I...”

 

More tears rolled down fine cheekbones, growing pink as they reached his chin.

 

“I-I'm sorry for lowering your worth to your physicality,” Enjolras began roughly, picking up the first thought he could gather and clinging to it, “You've always drawn my eye, your hair and skin...”

 

He trailed off to lay a hand on the boy's thigh, thumb rubbing through the dark hair and fine muscle along his bare knee.

 

“I told you, I liked what you said,” the artist kept his voice hushed, “It didn't bother me.”

 

“But that's not even half of what you are and I was afraid to be with you,” the truth seemed to slice between them, “I was terrified that if I had... _slept_ with you that night you would've lumped Montparnasse and I together. You would think me no better than them because I find you attractive. It wasn't fair. My feelings are fledgling and I wouldn't have them destroyed because I couldn't keep my hands off you.”

 

Grantaire gasped softly but he didn't interrupt, he didn't dare.

 

“You are...you are...” Enjolras grabbed his hand, searching for the answer in the younger man's knuckles, “You're everything I can't be, nor will I ever. You're uncommonly kind, and creative. You're an artist. God, I couldn't imagine doing that. Being filthy, bringing something to life out of nothing but raw material. It's like magic, what you do.”

 

The blonde was ranting now, a bit of his usual cadence falling in line with the new overemotional tremor his voice had become.

 

“You laugh more easily than anyone I have ever known. I wish I could find joy in the world like you do but everything I see is jaded and only half formed,” Enjolras confessed, squeezing the other's hand too tightly, “You come from hardships I've never known and you still manage to best me. People like you as a person in a way they could never like me. I wish I could be half the man you are. I would enjoy life so much more.”

 

He took a breath that bordered on a sob, “Which is why I need you beside me. To teach me. To help me be better.”

 

“Enjolras?”

 

The blonde bowed his head, pressing his forehead to the back of the younger man's hand, “I need you to help me protect my friends better than this.”

 

Enjolras was so focused on the anguish wrapped around his heart that he missed the sniffle, the huff, all the little sounds that escaped the artist. Long, blood dotted fingers laid on either side of his face and thumbs hooked under his chin. His head was pulled up and he saw Grantaire's face, flushed and streaked with tears.

 

“Don't cry!” Enjolras pleaded, terrified he'd fucked everything up.

 

“Then you can't say such terribly wonderful things,” Grantaire's laugh was choked up, “You idiot. You complete fool! How could I ever be anything but in love with you?”

 

“R,” Enjolras grabbed the boy as he flung himself into his arms, holding on tight. He laid kisses wherever his mouth could reach, tasting raven curls and the line of his neck.

 

“Never do anything so idiotic again,” Enjolras scolded between pecks, trying not to grip at any of the freshly bandaged wounds. Even with them both shaking from adrenaline and bloody, nothing had ever felt as satisfying as having the boy in his alive and in his arms.

 

“I won't promise such a thing,” Grantaire was giddy now, hand fisting golden locks like he was afraid to let go, “As long as you keep doing stupid things I'm going to be right there telling you so.”

 

“No more protests then.”

 

Grantaire pulled back enough to give the blonde a long, hard look, “You are a shit liar, Enjolras.”

 

The older man pressed a hot kiss to his mouth, shutting them both up.

 

Around them, battered and bruised, the ABC could only stare.

* * *

 

**You reviewed, and I typed like the wind. Feedback gives me fuel. I'm going to try so hard to get this done before November 5th, half-promise. I'm a very busy student. But seriously, thank you guys for reading and supporting me. You're the best. No shameless plugging this time, just pure enjoyment. I really hope you liked it. Oh *fans eyes* I'm emotional. The boys gave me serious feels this time. And don't worry, this isn't the end.**

**BTW: I desperately need ideas for dates. E/R dates. Come on, guys, last stretch.**

 

 


	19. Aftermath/The First Dates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group deals with the riot the only way they know how - together. Enjolras finally plucks up the courage to ask for what he wants. Thankfully, R is willing to oblige.

**Sorry for the large delay. I got the cold then I started playing Pokemon Black, so that ate up two weeks of my time. PLUS - a paper I almost forgot. I was going to write one SUPER HUGE chapter and then an epilogue but it turns out it'll be 23 chapters all together. Otherwise it got a bit crowded. I have a large chunk of everything already written - I just have to hash out the sex scenes. Please forgive me for making you wait? I promise I'm trying.**

**BTW: Tried my hand at smut. Hope it worked out (and keeps working out, because this is just the start)**

* * *

 

They all stayed home and wallowed for a few days, a constant stream of texts flowing between them all. They used the buddy-system to stay on top of their injuries. Joly stayed with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, Grantaire joined Bahorel and Lesgle at the richer boy's home, and Enjolras let Marius sleep on the fold out couch as he tried to recover from his rude-awakening.

 

Jehan ended up bailing Feuilly out of jail, offering the older man a place to stay to recover. Their working-man had ended up with a concussion, bruised up ribs, and cut along his head that ended up needing stitches.

 

The artist and the orator stayed closee. Though they hadn't seen one another since the accident, they were the most used contact in each others phones.

 

They were also the hot topic of conversation among the ABC.

 

***

 

Feuilly had his head tilted back, pushing his chocolate curls aside to reveal the line of stitches and the shaved section of hair. Joly was texting him instructions on how to clean the injury and thankfully it didn't look anything like the younger man had described it could be if it were infected. Jehan was lounging fully clothed in the tub, watching, the edge of one of those girly light beers kissing the pout of his lips every thirty seconds or so.

 

“Quit pouting,” Feuilly scolded, tearing the top off the alcohol swab off with his teeth.

 

“But...” he didn't need to listen, he'd heard the same thing on repeat since the night the kid had bailed him out.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Feuilly grumbled, “They're official. You lost the love of your life. I understand.”

 

“He was perfect,” Jehan whined, already drunk from just a few frilly bottles.

 

“He's a broken, penniless artist who was obviously in love with someone else,” teeth flashed at his own reflection once the swab touched the tender flesh, “That's far from perfect.”

 

The blonde rolled his head back against the tub edge, “Maybe they're not as happy as they let on.”

 

“From the way Enjolras goes on about it, I'd say they're more so than they appear,” Feuilly sucked it up and ran the swab down the entire wound, the muscles in his neck twitching as he tried not to cry out, “And you better leave them alone. Crying over it isn't going to make it any better.”

 

“You didn't see them,” Jehan sounded like he was trying to be angry but his heart just wasn't in it, “R looked so...”

 

“So what?” he prompted.

  
The younger man looked as if he were going to start crying, “So...so  _stupidly_  happy!”

Feuilly set the swab aside, going over to the boy. He put one knee on the tub and leaned over him, cupping the hairless jaw and moving it back so those pastel lips were offered up. He laid a hard kiss upon them, ignoring the little gasp of surprise.

 

“You can be happy without hurting them,” Feuilly promised, patting his cheek before going back to the sink, “You know I hate people who lay around and lament. Self pity is so absolutely boring.”

 

There were a few more minutes of silent cleaning and drinking before the boy cleared his throat.

 

“Feul?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I want to shave my head,” Jehan reaches up and twirls a finger around a tendril of hay that had started to curl, “I don't think I want long hair anymore.”

 

Feuilly could almost taste the weight of that decision, “We can do it tonight.”

 

Jehan nodded before disappearing deeper into the tub.

 

“Poets,” the older man scoffed, “You're so sensitive.”

 

“I'll show you sensitive,” came the weak threat.

 

He rolled his eyes again but this time he was smiling.

 

*****

 

Grantaire tried to step on his skateboard but the bruises halted him. It was still too early. Three days and he couldn't do much more than amble from Lesgle's house to the university via hitched rides. Even sitting at a desk for a long time was out of the question, he'd had to leave class twice just to get a relief on his abdomen. Joly tried to explain how deep the bruises were but he'd lost him after the term  _deep tissue_. His phone chimed from his pocket and he plucked it out, smiling when he spotted the name.

 

“Apollo,” he answered smoothly, one hand rubbing over his throbbing stomach, “Not calling from mount Olympus I hope?”

 

“ _Fortunately, no,_ ” the joke used to make Enjolras uncomfortable but now he got a little laugh from it, “ _I was just getting out of class and I was thinking about you. I wanted to know how your injuries are. Do you need anymore pain killers? I picked up some cream at the drug store and it's supposed to reduce bruising. I could stop by and drop it off, if you want._ ”

 

The older man sounded worried and it gave the artist a little flutter of happiness, “It's okay. You don't have to go out of your way. I'll get them at the next meeting.”

 

“ _It's Saturday,_ ” Enjolras offered quickly.

 

“I'll see you there,” he toed the edge of his board, “So, how's your day?”

 

The man gave a great sigh, “ _Class was interesting, to say the least._ ”

 

“Tell me about it.”

 

There was a brief pause, “ _Really?_ ”

 

“Of course,” Grantaire laughed, leaning against the wall outside his building.

 

“ _You don't mind?_ ”

 

“Why would I?”

“ _I can get..._ ” Enjolras trailed off, “ _Well, you know how I can get._ ”

 

Grantaire just bit down a smile and waited, mentally ticking off the seconds.

 

“ _So this complete and utter idiot decided it was his class today and his opinion was the only relevant one in the room..._ ”

 

***

 

The meeting went as smoothly as any meeting could go after the riot they went through. Everyone was still limping and frowning when they moved too quickly, but the smiles were back on their faces with the taken week of recovery. The actual gathering didn't take very long, they were all ready to get back to catching up on their homework. Except Feuilly, he had picked up an extra shift since he'd missed two already from the rally and the day he'd laid up in bed.

 

They filed out slowly, one after the other down the narrow steps. Combeferre and Courfeyrac hung back with Enjolras, the three of them sorting through a pile of contacts. The three of them were already talking about setting up a rally in Amsterdam, a carefully planned peaceful one. It wouldn't be for everyone, their leader made it clear he wasn't willing to risk it.

 

Grantaire watched the golden trio for a few minutes before he decided to leave and wait for his demi-god with a cup of coffee.

 

“R?” it was still unbelievably charming to hear his nickname come from those full lips, “Stay, please.”

 

Grantaire nodded toward the older man, putting his back to the wall and his bag down by his legs. He wasn't up to laying the strap across his chest yet. This was the first morning he'd woken up without the skin throbbing and he wasn't about to push it. He cocked his head a little to the right and listened in on the trio's conversation. Though separate they could be almost overwhelming, the three of them together were by far the interesting thing to tune in to.

 

“Are you alright?” Enjolras asked Courfeyrac, hand on his shoulder.

 

“Of course,” the ravenette tried to play it off, dimples showing, “It doesn't even hurt anymore. I won't be punching anyone anytime soon. I gave in and went to the doctor. Just one break along my ring finger, and they don't think it'll be any trouble.”

 

“Thank God,” Combeferre shot out.

 

The two roommates left together after that, talking quietly about rent. Grantaire wished them a good night before cutting his own path toward Enjolras, carefully circling the chairs as he watched the blonde make a neat stack out of the pages. His thumb brushed noisily along the edge in a small, anxious tick. It was a very rare thing to see his Apollo in a state where he wasn't comfortable, especially around him. He was nothing to get flustered about.

 

“I would like very much to take you out,” there were nerves threading through his voice, “On an official date, I mean.”

 

Grantaire's lips parted in a small 'o' of surprise, “Are you asking me out?”

 

“It's only appropriate,” Enjolras actually sounded like he was trying to convince him of something, it was enough to make him suppress a bubble of chuckles, “It's the next step, don't you agree? We've both made our feelings known, we've established that we would like to pursue it, so it only seems natural to spend more time together. I would like to go on a date with you – several, if you allow it – to get to know you better. So we can-”

 

“Apollo?” he interrupted.

 

Wide, blue eyes peered at him, “Yes?”

 

“I would  _love_  to go on a date with you.”

 

***

 

The main street bridge that stretched over the River Seine was almost romantic in the dusky light of the evening. Enjolras's right and left hand stood side by side, cigarettes dangling from their lips and elbows resting on the railing. They had decided to walk to Les Amis since it was just across the bridge from their apartment. The water was beautiful, the air was cool, and Joly had recommended light exercise and fresh air to help them heal. Their conversation didn't go deeper than rent and their families bugging them about the riot, calling and texting to see if they were okay. The ABC completely denied being involved in the travesty but all their families knew how politically woven they were. They worried whenever something like that happened.

 

Combeferre gathered up his courage, lighting up a second cigarette while the first bud still smoldered on the ground, “It's a fine thing between Enjolras and R, don't you think?”

 

“Yeah, I'm really happy for them,” Courfeyrac smiled, eyes thoughtfully turned to the sky, “I didn't know E felt that way, though. I know he dated that one girl for a little while. And I've only ever seen him talk to women at bars. I wish he could have felt comfortable enough to tell me.”

 

“Don't feel too bad. I don't think he knew either.”

 

“I guess I'm just kind of oblivious,” he shrugged, “I never thought he'd have sex.”

 

Combeferre gave in and laughed, “Oh, he's had sex.”

 

The younger man's dark eyes got real wide at that, “No way, seriously? With Grantaire?”

 

“No, at least not yet,” he pushed up his glasses, “With a couple different people. He usually takes it very seriously.”

 

“Oh,” Courfeyrac's eyebrows were up into his hair, “Good on him, then. Though sex isn't fun if you take it seriously.”

 

The younger man took a long drag off his cigarette.

 

Combeferre couldn't take it another second, “Would you go to dinner with me?”

 

Courfeyrac tilted his head back toward him, holding in enough smoke to strain his voice, “We get dinner all the time.”

 

“I was thinking more along the lines of a... _date_ ,” the confusion on the other's face destroyed his confidence, “I don't know, if you want to.”

 

“Uh,” it came out in a plume of smoke, “I don't really like guys.”

 

“Oh,” his brows knitted, “I thought, maybe, you felt the same. Back there at the riot, you were-”

 

“Don't even hold me to that,” Courfeyrac sounded on the edge of outrage, “I was sick with adrenaline for two days after it. I said and did a lot of things. You're my friend, 'Ferre, but I don't see you like that.”

 

The words hollowed Combeferre out, disheartening him. Courfeyrac had been responding so well to his casual advances. He'd been making him breakfast, touching him more, and the rally – he'd protected him. The way he'd calmed down from a kiss on the cheek, it had to have meant more than friendship. Maybe he'd miscalculated.

 

That thought sent a burn through the academic's cheeks.

 

“I hope this doesn't make things weird, man,” Courfeyrac's mouth pulled down as he watched his friend, “Let's head home, okay?”

 

“I'll...I'll see you there in a bit,” Combeferre tried to smile again and it felt like his face cracked, “I think I'm going to stay out a bit longer.”

 

“If you're sure,” the younger man took a step away but he didn't turn away, not yet, “I really am sorry if I made you think I was into you. If I did anything to string you along, it was an accident.”

 

The words only drove the nails of rejection in that much further. They stomped down on his childish crush, practically sucking the wind out of him and any idea he had of the two of them together.

 

“It's fine.”

  
It was anything but.

 

“I didn't mean to,” the ravenette continued, “I would never-”

 

“Courfeyrac.”

 

The use of his full name shut him up.

 

“Just go home, okay?”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Courfeyrac nodded, slowly spinning on his heels, “I hope we're still friends.”

 

Combeferre sucked it up and listened to his friend walk away. In just a few short moments, he was alone.

 

“It was fucking stupid anyway,” he muttered, resting his whole weight on his elbows and leaned over. At least he killed the stupid attraction while it was young. Looking back, he wasn't sure what made him think it was a possible idea. Courfeyrac was always going through girls like laundry, showing up with hickeys and mussed hair and lipstick all over his face. He was a ladies man, he always had been.

 

Combeferre knew he was just some law dork who could only see a few feet in front of him before the world went blurry, but he considered himself somewhat of a catch. Courfeyrac had dismissed the idea of the two of them before he had a chance to think it over. The thought must have been so preposterous to him, so silly. His feelings must have come off outlandish.

 

Combeferre pressed a hand over his eyes, covering up his embarrassed flush and the wetness of his eyes.

 

*****

 

“I never trusted Hollande,” Enjolras had hit the ten minute mark on his speech and this was the third time he'd said that particular statement. They were having coffee at a place near the edge of the city. It was small, intimate, and they could sit across from one another but be comfortably close. The air was warm with ground, foreign espresso beans and fresh bread. The music was soft, the shadow of violin strings floating above their heads. Anyone passing by the glass windows could see them and know that they were together. It was a public declaration and it did wonders for Grantaire's self esteem.

 

“That ecotax is exasperating at best. A distraction technique if I've ever heard one. The man loses the favor of the people and he tries this shoddy patchwork job of reform. If he thinks for one moment we're going to stand for it – he's got another thing coming.”

 

Grantaire reached out and grabbed the blonde's hand, lacing their fingers beside his coffee, “Enj?”

 

The older boy snapped his mouth shut, cheek bones coloring when he realized how fast and insistently he'd been talking.

 

“I'm nervous too,” Grantaire admitted.

 

Enjolras smiled and ducked his head, almost shy, “I've become obvious.”

 

“Merely predictable,” Grantaire lowered his head, managing to catch those beautiful eyes hidden under the golden fan of his lashes, “I like predictable.”

 

“Lucky me.”

 

*****

 

“They're calling it the 'Hands Off My Whore' campaign,” Enjolras informed the other as he walked out of the kitchen, silverware in hand, “While I don't care for the name, I agree with what they're doing.”

 

Grantaire scoffed from the oven. The artist was easily preparing crepes to go with the meat/vegetable compote he had simmering on the back burner. His culinary skills were above and beyond what Enjolras had and it was a relief and a pleasure to have him over to fix dinner. In a way it felt a little like he was taking advantage of Grantaire's need to please him but the other had been quick to make him useful. Chopping, mixing, grabbing things – he proved to be proficient at that.

 

“I thought you'd be against prostitution?” Grantaire called.

 

“I will defend anyone's right to do what they want, including selling themselves,” Enjolras countered, laying out the plates with the utensils bracketing them, “Sad as it may be, there are women out there who have nothing else. Without sex profit, they'd be found starving in the gutters. It's the only thing that separates the homeless from the prostitutes.”

 

“I can't believe I'm hearing this,” but there was no malice in the younger man's voice, “You do realize that this law would only fine Johns, not the hookers?”

 

“It's a chain reaction, like loud noises near forests,” Enjolras shot back immediately, “If you make enough racket and drive the birds away, the seeds of the trees won't be eaten and spread to fertilize.”

 

“You're comparing sex trade with environmentalism?” Grantaire gave a barking laugh, and the blonde could perfectly envision those dark curls bouncing as he tossed his head back, “Three hundred and forty-three men sign a petition to keep tricks from being fined. That's a far cry from the prostitutes standing up for themselves. They don't need men taking up a soap box for them!”

 

“And there you go again, assigning gender roles,” Enjolras set two glasses down on the table for the wine, “Women can hire men for sex just as easily as the other way around. It comes down to freedom of choice and rights, 'Taire.”

 

“You just want to buy a piece of ass.”

 

Enjolras smiled to himself, heading back into the room to help the other finish up. He stopped at the doorway and watched the younger boy putter around the counter, an apron tied around his waist to add a neat little bow to the base of his back.

 

 _How did I ever live without him?_  Enjolras thought to himself as he leaned against the frame, drinking up the atmosphere,  _I would have this – forever – if I could._

 

A few months ago the thought would've shocked him but now it just sent a pleasant tingle through his tummy.

 

*****

 

Once everyone had caught up on their work and their bruises had faded to yellow and green spots, they decided to head to their favorite bar for some light-hearted fun. And it was, at least for the first house. They laughed like they hadn't in weeks, though Joly had convinced them to stick to beer so they didn't get too drunk. He was still nit-picking at their health, more than usual.

 

The door chime was swallowed up by the chatter of the pub.

 

Grantaire was the first to notice the two men who walked in. Montparnasse was accompanied by Gueulemer, the two looking as good as new after their beating (though the smaller man seemed to have a straighter, smaller nose now). They cast hard looks at the ABC, the group slowly catching on as the two men sat down at the opposite end of the bar.

 

Grantaire dared to let his eyes linger on them. Montparnasse shot a wink and blew a kiss his way. The younger shuddered and quickly looked away, growing quiet and still as he stared down at his drink instead. His attacker's gaze burned holes into his cheek, bringing up the memories of that night.

 

Enjolras slipped an arm around his shoulders, leaning down to begin laying gentle kisses along the ravenette's pale neck, “Don't think about him, darling.”

 

The honeyed name struck him to the core, sending another tremor through his body.

 

“I don't think I can do this,” Grantaire confessed beneath his breath, fingers gripping the edge of the counter in pulses, “What if he tries something?”

 

“He wouldn't dare, not while I'm here,” Enjolras swore, voice low and sharp, “I won't let him lay a finger on you.”

 

Grantaire wanted to protest, beg to leave, but he could only coo as the blonde nibbled just under his ear. He pushed into the touch, curling his body into the older man's. Enjolras wrapped both his arms around his waist, moving behind him. It was enveloping, protective, and just what he needed to kill off his nerves. Enjolras tucked him in tight, pressing into him from knees to chest while he murmured sugared nothings into his ear. The noise of the bar faded out into a low buzz, his world narrowing down to plush lips and strong fingers laying across his ribs.

 

“I forgot to tell you how good you look tonight,” Enjolras took his mouth in a brief kiss, plucking the edge of the smaller man's t-shirt, “You look as good in grey as you think I do in red.”

 

“Doubt it,” Grantaire teased lightly, glowing under the public attention.

 

The artist was too wrapped up in Enjolras to spot Combeferre, Feuilly, and Éponine confronting the two members of the  _Patron-Minette_. By the time Grantaire came back to reality, they'd been kicked out.

 

*****

 

Grantaire sat eager and cross-legged on his boyfriend's couch, squirming around as he thought of that term.  _Boyfriend_. Not lover, not yet, but boyfriend was the term they'd agreed upon. Actually, when he was asked if that word was okay, Enjolras had just laughed and said  _of course_. He hadn't exactly dressed to impress, shoved into a paint-stained pair of jeans and an old soft t-shirt, but once Enjolras came back into the room he felt the tension melt away. The older boy had put on a grey hoody, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows to show off the bulge of his tan forearms.

 

He had two beers clutched in one fist, a bottle opener in the other.

 

“So what are we going to watch?” Grantaire inquired, watching the blonde pop the tops before laying them on the table, “Due to the lack of lighting and time of night, I'm hoping for scary.”

 

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, plucking the case off the shelf of movies and popping out the disk, “It's called  _Martyrs_.”

 

That was a new title for him, “Is it a political film?”

 

“I believe so, though I think I'm the only one,” Enjolras started putting it in, flipping the TV to the right output, “It has elements of underground slavery, human obsession, and what true martyrdom is. It's part of the New French movement.”

 

“Oh, I've heard of  _that_ ,” Grantaire perked up a little, “A lot of critically acclaimed work has come out under that genre. That guy David Fear said it was all about savage violence and, uh, sexual ugliness. I was looking at an article about it the other day. Is it the one that has an emphasis on human body worship and defilement?”

 

“Yes, exactyly,” Enjolras plopped down on the couch beside him, picking up the remote and the open beer, “I think it's a great analysis on humanity but it leans pretty heavy on the horror side. Is that okay?”

 

“Hell yeah, it is!” Grantaire grabbed the beer meant for him, tucking it between the cushions as he resettled with his legs kicked upon the table, “Bring it on.”

 

“Are you sure?” Enjolras sank further down into the seat, throwing an arm behind the couch, “It's a little intense. We could watch something else.”

 

“No way. Let's do this.”

 

It was the farthest thing from romantic as Grantaire could have thought up. While Enjolras was sprawled on the couch looking content, the artist was gagging so hard he was sure he'd throw up his supper all over the table. It started out normal enough, killing off a few characters like any other murder flick. Then it gained a supernatural/thriller aspect. The monster-thing was creepy as hell but that wasn't what disgusted him. It hit the halfway mark. The main character, a young girl, was captured and tortured. It got worse as the minutes ticked by.

 

“Jesus Christ!” Grantaire gave in and buried his face in the blonde's neck, refusing to watch anymore. It was bad enough listening to it but he couldn't watch that girl get pummeled any longer. Enjolras was startled by the sudden embrace but he quickly set aside his drink, taking the artist up so he was almost in his lap.

 

“Are you alright?” Enjolras laced a hand through his friend's raven curls, “I can turn it off. We can find something else to watch.”

 

“No, God damn it, I need to know how it ends,” Grantaire griped, eyes still clenched shut, “Just leave it on.”

 

He snuck glances at the screen and regretted it every time.

 

“Are they cutting off her...? Oh my God,” Grantaire curled up tighter against the other, “Please don't tell me they're skinning her?”

 

“Then I won't.”

 

“You're a total asshole,” but he didn't mean it.

 

After what fell like a decade, the credits started to roll. Enjolras pulled the younger man fully into his lap, running his up and down the length of his back.

 

“That was a terrible idea,” Enjolras conceded, a rough nip on his ear telling him how right he was, “It was a little too much, wasn't it?”

 

“No, no,” Grantaire lied, pulling back slowly, “It was just intense. I get what you were saying about slavery and-” he cleared his dry throat, “-martyrdom.”

  
“It's getting late,” Enjolras pointed out, fingers drifting down to skim across the other's stubbled cheek, “Why don't you stay the night?”

 

The ravenette managed a smile, “Why, Apollo...”

“Just to sleep,” he assured him.

 

“Do I get to stay in your bed?”

 

“Of course,” Enjolras leaned up and pecked a kiss to his pink lips, “Where else?”

 

Grantaire was sure it would get awkward – fast – but it stayed just as comfortable as before. He borrowed a loose t-shirt and a pair of boxers, the older man slipping into something similar before turning off the lights. As his eyes adjusted, he stared at the outline of the bed. The same one from all that time ago when he hated the orator for their miscommunication. And here he was – about to sleep in the heart of his love's den. Where Enjolras suffered from colds and did his late night reading. A unique place he'd only ever seen once before and now he got to share it with him.

 

In the cover of the shadows, he discreetly pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

 

Blind and still discussing the movie, they managed to get under the covers.

 

“I understand why they make movies like that,” Grantaire's breath hitched as the blonde slung an arm over his stomach, the warmth of it settling over his sleepy mind like a blanket, “Repression and censorship in film has been getting out of hand lately. It probably looks like an extremest film to the untrained eye.”

 

“I found it fascinating,” Enjolras admitted, yanking a pillow under his head, “It had a couple twists I didn't expect and the ending was brilliantly endless.”

“You can call yourself a pacifist as much as you want, but I think there's a violent streak in you.”

 

“Political pacifist,” Enjolras corrected him, eyes falling closed.

 

“If you say so.”

 

***

 

_Grantaire was in that house, the simple one from the movie that had housed the family and had hidden the dungeon. The basement door was open, leading to the dark hallways and the blood-soaked rooms beneath. He couldn't look away from the yawning shadows, just knowing that there was something in there. He struggled to back up, his bare feet sticking to the ice cold floor. Something was wrong, something was-_

 

_Long, blood-hot fingers clawed over his eyes and mouth._

 

_The world tilted hard on its axis, and despite his screaming he was pulled down – down – and then –_

 

_Straps grabbed his wrists and legs, yanking him onto a cool metal table. The steel stung his back and thighs, his clothes melting away thread by thread until he could feel it all over. The hands on his face were replaced by leather strips, the edges cutting into his cheeks and gagging up his cries._

_  
Grantaire pried his eyes open, surgical lights nearly burning out his retinas. He flinched hard and pulled at the restraints, the shadow of a hulking man coming up beside him. He was faceless but his hands were in clear focus, a gleaming straight-edge blade in one fist._

 

_Grantaire tried to beg to be let go but the leather ate up every word. He turned his head as much as he could, looking around the room, finding another gurney beside his own. Stark white doctors surrounded it, strapping someone else down. He caught a flash of blonde, a flat chest, and latex-covered hands slapped down on a protesting mouth. Wide blue eyes found his before the figures moved, hiding him again._

 

_Enjolras._

 

“ _No!” Grantaire yelled, the gag snapping under his teeth so he could cry out, “Let him go! You motherfuckers! Don't touch him!”_

 

_Something sharp touched his hip, stealing his attention. The faceless man's knife was slipping under his skin without hesitation, unadulterated fear coursing like ice in his veins and flushing his system until he couldn't stop trembling. The razor edge slide across the muscle, detaching the skin, pulling it up until one slab of skin sluiced off and fell to the floor. White and red laced flesh was revealed, the kind you saw in anatomy books._

 

_Grantaire sucked in three great gulps of air before he started screaming._

 

***

 

Enjolras grabbed the boy by the shoulders and shook him hard, just once, trying to knock him out of his dream, “Grantaire!”

 

The artist was a sweaty, shaking mess beneath him. He'd been shouting for who knows how long and Enjolras had just woken up, frightened and ready for an intruder. But there was no one there, just whatever was infecting his love's mind. Grantaire's lips were chewed raw, fingers bone-white where they were curled into the sheets and then onto his own arms.

 

It seemed that Grantaire was good at making him feel helpless because the boy looked to be in so much pain but he couldn't even wake him up.

 

“R, please,” Enjolras grabbed the side of his face, praying to bring the boy out of his agony, “Wake up. Don't stay there, wherever you are.”

 

The ends of his fingers dragged through sweat-slick raven hair, pulling the roots. It was enough to make dark lashes flutter before those eye popped open, fear etched in every curve of his gaze. He looked like a wild animal and for a moment Enjolras was sure he was going to be attacked, but the boy came back into himself and realized where he was.

 

“Fuck,” Grantaire panted out, reaching up to touch the blonde's shoulders, “Those guys – did they hurt you? Where's my skin?”

 

“What?” Enjolras watched the ravenette pushed aside the blanket and ruck up his shirt, pale fingers rubbing over his hip like he expected something else to be there, “Your... _skin_  is fine.”

 

“I just-” Grantaire poked and prodded at the skin, wincing like it hurt, “I don't know. I thought they were cutting it off. I didn't know how much I had left.”

 

“Cutting it off?” Enjolras's brow furrowed before he remembered the movie from before, “Jesus, R, I know I should've turned it off. Did you dream about it?”

 

“I...I...” the younger shook his head, sinking his head into the pillow as whatever had been plaguing him started to truly disappear, “I guess I was. It felt so real. God damn, E, it felt so fucking real!”

 

Enjolras barely had time to take in a breath before Grantaire dragged him down into a kiss, canines scraping against his lip. The boy was aggressive, borderline desperate, tasting every inch of his mouth. He wrapped his arms around the other's hips and pulled him up, pressing their bodies together. Grantaire's strong legs wrapped around him, clinging, demanding more contact.

 

“I've got you,” Enjolras rasped against his mouth, refusing to hiss in pain when the ravenette's bitten-down nails scraped under his collar and across his skin, “Nothing's going to hurt you. It was just a movie. No one's taken us, no one's-”

 

_Skinning you._

 

Grantaire eventually calmed down, his kisses sweetening as he realized just what they were doing. Though they weren't hard, the loving contact made them flush and lose their breath. The artist gave a little coo that he swallowed down. Enjolras let his hands roam down the curve of his back until they could settle across his ass, keeping their bodies pressed in hopes the physical contact would keep grounding him.

 

“I don't think this is 'going slow',” Grantaire commented, words trailing off to a chuckle as his hand came up to card through his blonde hair.

 

“Should I stop?”

 

Grantaire shook his head, a soft look coming over his face, “It's nice.”

 

“I'm sorry about the movie,” Enjolras dropped a few feather-light kisses on his cheek, lips grazing against dark stubble, “I'll be more attentive in the future.”

 

“You know what?” Grantaire wet his bottom lip, seeming to test its tenderness, “I'll watch a hundred terrifying so-called political movies if it means ending up here.”

 

“You're always welcome here,” the blonde assured him, slowly laying down beside the men but cuddling close, “Day or night. You don't need to torture yourself.”

 

The overwhelmingly grateful look that crossed the boy's face was like a punch to the chest.

 

***

 

“ _Battle Royale_  is political,” Grantaire assured him during their second movie night, a week after the debacle that was  _Martyrs_ , “Way more than that piece of twisted horror you tried to pass off on me. Eventually, every government is going to dissolve into something like this.”

  
“I doubt that,” Enjolras rolled his eyes, settling onto the couch, “The population will simply start dying off from lack of resources and poor living conditions. Did you bring anything else?”

 

“Yes, now that you mention it,” the artist shifted through the stack he'd shoved onto one of the other man's shelves, plucking out a case, “If you're not feeling palatable violence, I also have  _L'Age d'or_.”

 

“What's that?”

 

“It's kind of a comedy about a couple who want to be together but they keep getting interrupted,” Grantaire popped it in, “It's  _something_ , that's for sure. It's kind of romantic.”

 

It turned out to be true. The movie was shot in that soft, black and white light that made everything glossy. It was entertaining and the actors were all beautiful, painted and powdered to be smooth and air-brushed. They were carved figures of youth that would last forever, made eternal through film. The lights of the room were low and their bellies were full of a good, home-cooked dinner that they had prepared together. They were, for lack of better terms, warm and fuzzy from the sweetness of their date and the comfort of being alone after a long day.

 

Enjolras was the one to start it. He scooted over until their thighs were flush against each other, stretching one arm to rest behind the artist's head along the back of the couch. Blue eyes fell away from the screen as he started mouthing at his boyfriend's pale neck, teeth teasing the flesh until goosebumps cropped up. Grantaire shivered and sighed, still watching the movie even as he tilted his head submissively. Tan fingers slipped under a threadbare t-shirt, the younger man's stomach jumping at the first touch. Those little sounds were the greatest reaction he'd ever received from just a few touches. Grantaire was so unlike anyone he'd ever touched, so responsive and open to every caress and kiss.

 

“May I try something?” Enjolras inquired, thumb grazing just under a hardening nipple.

 

“Whatever you want,” Grantaire breathed out instantly, eyes half-lidded. The blonde caressed the hard peak on the boy's chest before he gave the sensitive flesh a pinch, getting a tiny whimper. He hummed and started making his way down, dropping more kisses over his clothed chest and further down until he could taste the curves of his stomach.

 

“Enj?” Grantaire sucked in a loud breath when the older man nuzzled the growing bulge in his jeans, “What are you doing?”

 

“Hush,” Enjolras stood up, pushing back the coffee table to give himself plenty of room before dropping to his knees. Grantaire gaped dumbly as the blonde grabbed his hips and dragged him further down, jean-clad knees bracketing him. The artist seemed to sink down into the cushions, surprised but horribly pleased that they were going to do this.

 

Enjolras laid his hands along the boy's thighs and he could feel him shaking, “Don't be nervous, darling. We'll only do what you want to do. Just say the word and I'll stop.”

 

“The only reason I'll tell you to stop is if my heart gives out,” Grantaire cracked a smile, “Don't expect anything. It doesn't matter how horrible you are, I'm going to break the second you touch me.”

 

“It won't be horrible,” Enjolras started unbuckling the younger man's belt, quick fingers going over buttons and zippers until he could see the elastic of his underwear, “And it will last, don't you worry about that. You just watch the movie and relax.”

 

“Watch the...?” Grantaire chuckled hysterically, “How can I when I have this beautiful creature between my legs?”

“The same way I can continue my speeches while you suck and chew on every pen you come across like it's some lolly,” Enjolras grabbed the edges of his pants, “Now watch. Let me work.”

 

Grantaire seemed to obey for some time, giving him a few peaceful moments to strip off all the clothing getting in his way. The artist keened and tried to hide himself, legs trying to close and hands coming up to cover his already aching cock. Enjolras shushed him softly, pushing his hands away before rubbing soothing circles along his slim thighs. He'd seen the younger man climb up the side of a building using only window ledges and the edges of a fire escape, he knew what kind of strength hid inside all this pale skin and baby fat.

 

“You're lovely,” Enjolras promised, rubbing out the tension as he dropped warm kisses along his knees and up his thighs, “Do you remember when I first bit you? On the table at Lesgle's house, with all that disgusting tequila? God above, I'd never seen someone so beautiful in all my life. You were spread across that table for anyone to have and all I wanted to do was hide you away from them. They were all looking at you and I couldn't stand it, R, it made me sick. You deserve more than to be objectified. I wanted to give you everything, right there.”

 

“I wanted to kiss you so badly,” Grantaire choked out, clearly overwhelmed.

 

“I almost wish you'd have let me,” Enjolras glanced up at him, “Look at the movie.”

“I'd rather watch you.”

“Don't you think I'm nervous?” the blonde tittered, “Do us both a favor – don't watch this time.”

 

“The god of the sun? Nervous?” Grantaire raised his eyes to the screen but they were hazy with anticipated pleasure, “Never.”  
  
“Always,” he countered, “Be nice and still for me. Let me make up our last date to you.”

 

*

 

At first it was just warmth. A teasing hint of wetness, no pressure to relieve the coils of lust winding up in his gut. Just heat. And it was better than he could've dreamed. The TV screen blurred up as tears started to well up in his eyes, head and heart filling up so fast with pure adoration that he felt he was going to explode.

 

For the first time, he had to disobey Enjolras and looked down. Oh, he looked amazing. Gold-spun lashes were closed in a look of absolute content, wide lips parting so wonderfully as they slid down the length of his cock. He'd never imagined Enjolras would be so willing to do this. He shouldn't have been, the blonde had always been very adamant about equal rights in all branches of society – including relationships. In his fantasies it was always him who made the first move. He had vivid daydreams about pushing Enjolras up against a wall or pinning him down to his own bed, ripping off his pants, and sucking down what he was sure was a magnificent cock. He wanted to get his hands on him so bad. He wanted to strip Enjolras down to study and taste every inch of fit, toned flesh. He wanted the man naked more than he needed-

 

“Ah!” Grantaire grabbed a fistful of the couch, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes without his consent. The other man's tongue traced up the underside of his cock, sending a jolt up through his chest. It had been much too long since he'd felt someone go slow, like they really wanted to give him something instead of just getting him ready to get fucked.

 

 _Getting fucked_ , now there was an idea. If Enjolras was this slow and methodical with a simple blow job, he couldn't imagine how he would fuck. To think -  _this_  was apparently him at his most nervous.

 

The sound of the movie seemed to fizzle out as Enjolras started sucking at the sensitive tip, the cushion of his lips like silk against the cut head. He couldn't see if the other was getting anything out of this, the angle was terrible to spot anything past the tight pull of his shirt along his back, but his cheeks were rosy and when he cracked open his eyes they looked just as blissed out as his own must've been. Sun kissed digits curled around the length, saliva slicking up the plump flesh so each stroke went smooth enough to drive him up higher into the clouds. As he stroked, the older man dropped moist kisses along any skin his finger seemed to miss.

 

His heart fluttered, a non-sexual pleasure rising up at the intimacy of the act.

 

“Here,” Enjolras grabbed his hand and dragged it down until the artist's fingers threaded through the already-growing hair at the back of his head, “It's okay to grab me. I know you want to.”

“You-” Grantaire broke off when the man tightened his grip, sending high flags of color up into his cheeks, “You didn't seem like the type.”

 

The confident grin he'd been sporting turned a little shy, “I actually like my hair pulled.”

 

Grantaire felt his thighs quiver at the simple sentence, imagining all the ways he could take advantage of that fact. Then he couldn't think of anything at all because that exquisite mouth was back on him.

 

*

 

“Dear, sweet Apollo,” Grantaire gasped above him, voice robbed off breath as he got closer to the edge.

 

Enjolras could feel the swell of the boy's cock on his tongue, the throb of his pulse beneath his thumbs where they pressed into his thighs. His artist was falling apart and it took everything in him not to flip him over have their first time over the couch. Grantaire was just so damn beautiful stretching and writhing around on the couch, long fingers starting to actually tug on his hair. The fingers of an artist, calloused and ingrained with color from too many sloppy nights with paint.

 

Enjolras had never particularly enjoyed going down on someone, he'd always considered it more of a way to smooth things along than a main event. But doing this with Grantaire was something different. The younger boy's responses were more gratitude than he had ever gotten. He slid his hands around to cup the curves of his ass, taking him down further. His throat ached in protest but he didn't care, not with the way Grantaire cried out. He traced the ridge of the boy's cock, teasing the nerve endings, grinning around the flesh when he squirmed.

 

Grantaire gave a harsh tug that made his roots scream. He pulled off his cock with a wet 'pop', hissing through clenched teeth as his cock throbbed within the confines of his underwear.

 

“Wait,” the ravenette panted, “I'm close.”

 

“Good,” Enjolras tightened his grip, feeling the boy's ass tighten eagerly under his palms, “Give it to me.”

Raven lashes fell shut, another precious tear falling down his cheek. The thought that he had reduced the younger man down to base level of enjoyment made every drag of the zipper against his cock more pleasure than pain. He swallowed Grantaire down once more and the moan he drew from him was deep, unscripted. Every reaction was honest and it was more than he could ever hope for.

 

Enjolras only pulled back when he felt the boy's balls draw up. He kept his lips sealed around the warm head, dragging one blunt finger over the other's perineum. It was a rather intimate act but it seemed so right, and Grantaire seemed to agree by the way he eagerly spread his legs and rocked into it. Though he hated it when his partners stared up at him, he couldn't look away.

 

Grantaire's curls were crushed against the back of the couch, usually pale face colored up from hairline to jaw, a few droplets of sweat shining by his neckline and forehead. His too-pink mouth was wide open as he released a keening sound that laid across his senses like spun-sugar, the other spilling across his tongue and down his throat. He took it willingly, his own hips shifting restlessly as he got his first taste of the artist.

 

Grantaire cooed as he came down from his high, eyes closed and body slumping into the couch. Enjolras pulled off him slowly, licking up every last drop of essence with a little smile as over-sensitive shivers snaked through the body beneath him. Being as careful and as slow as he could, he eased Grantaire's underwear and jeans back up his legs. He didn't fasten them but he covered him up, giving him a little privacy in his vulnerable moment. He was sucking in big lungfuls of air but he looked beyond happy.

 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire purred out the syllables of his full name, a rare treat. The blonde gathered him up and rolled him down onto the couch, fitting himself rather snugly on top of him. The artist kept a grip on his hair and used it to pull him down into a lazy kiss, and though he was sated he moved against him like he wanted more. Enjolras stared dumbly as their lips touched, stunned that Grantaire didn't mind the taste of himself in his mouth. Every other partner he'd been with had always been squeamish about this act but his lover  _now_  was licking the taste away like an hungry kitten.

 

They rode out the exhaustion of his orgasm together, making out like teenagers but with a more languid air to their movements. Their hands dragged in slow trails over shirts and through hair, ruffling them up even more.

 

“Thank you,” Grantaire finally hummed, eyes dry now but his face still pink around the edges.

 

“Don't thank me,” Enjolras pecked kisses across the other's neck, “I've been wanting to.”

 

The artist seemed to pull himself together, shaking off the sleepiness long enough to thumb at the blonde's jeans, “Let me help you out.”

 

“I'm fine,” Enjolras assured him, grabbing his hand and lacing their fingers together, “That was just for you.”

Grantaire frowned, brow furrowing up, “Don't you want me to?”

 

“I do, most ardently,” he kissed their laced fingers, “But I can wait. I'd rather stay right here if you don't mind.”

 

“Okay,” Grantaire's smile was tender, on the edge of being amazed, “Yeah, okay.”

 

The sound of the movie drifted above their heads as they kissed for a while longer, wrapped up in the smell and taste of one another. Then Enjolras remembered the way the younger had tried to hide himself while he was between his legs.

 

“Just so you know,” the blonde started, their lips still brushing every other word, “I think you're... _quite_  attractive. Your body is nothing to be ashamed of. I enjoy it very much. More than I should, really.”

 

Grantaire looked as if he was going to clam up so he pressed another hard kiss to his small mouth, “Enj-”

 

“I'm serious,” he insisted, running his hand down the boy's chest to his hip, “I want you to be as comfortable with me as possible. I don't want to ever make you feel like you have to hide. Your body is beautiful and it's something I would like to explore. Did I do something to make you feel that way?”

 

“No!” Grantaire promised quickly, “I'm just stupid self-conscious. I'll get over it.”

 

“I'm not mad at you for it,” Enjolras sat up, bringing the boy up wit him so he could rest their heads together against the back of the couch, “Take your time.”

 

They breathed each other in for a few minutes, absently listening to the movie.

 

“I  _will_  get over it, though,” Grantaire assured him, eyes still closed, “What I've seen of you looks so good – I know it's not a competition, but it feels like it. And I'm losing. I know it's stupid! Don't look at me like that!”

 

“I'm not holding you in comparison with my body,” Enjolras glanced down at himself, confused, “Mine isn't important.”

 

“Not important?” Grantaire brayed out a laugh, “It's one half of the equation! You've seen all of me at this point, I'm sure you've noticed the...” he trailed off, “The differences.”

 

“Would it be more fair if I showed myself to you?” Enjolras stood up, stripping off his t-shirt. He tugged off his muscle shirt next, letting it fall by his feet. His jeans went down without a fight as well but he had to be more careful about his underwear, easing it past his still-hard cock. He kicked them away, turning to face the artist with his chin held high.

 

Grantaire looked awe-struck, the only thing filling his gaping mouth was the crook of his knuckle. He seemed to be using it to not-quite-smother a moan.

 

“This is me,” Enjolras held out his arms briefly, “It's the earthly shell I've been given to carry out those causes you often tease me about. I'm just what I am. It's not special – it's just a part of me. I'm nothing to be intimidated by. I am no god, no Adonis, no Apollo. What you see is all I have to offer you and I'm sorry if you were expecting anything else.”

 

“Quite the contrary, you're extraordinary. I could pray for a thousand years and never ask for more than what you've given me,” Grantaire ran the heel of his palm over the seam of his jeans, his cock giving a trying stir, “Could I sketch you? If I swore to never show another living soul?”

 

“You could show whoever you like,” Enjolras closed the few steps between them and eased onto the couch, straddling the artist, “But I thought you'd rather keep me to yourself? I am for you, now. As you were just for me.”

 

“How did I ever get so lucky?” Grantaire tentatively laid a palm along the blonde's chest, his touch wonderfully rough, “What could I have done in a past life to deserve this?”

 

“I'm not sure, but I'm glad you did,” Enjolras slowly cocked his head to the side as the younger man's hand drifted up to touch the side of his neck, “Now shall I put my pants back on or would you like to look some more?”

 

“I would like to look,” the ravenette's smirk was staring to come back, “Would you mind if I grabbed my sketch book?”

 

He raised a brow, “If you manage to move me, I'll allow it.”

***

 

“And  _that's_  how we broke the coffee table,” Grantaire explained, hands wringing in front of him as he tried not to meet his friend's eyes, “And, incidentally,  _that's_  why I need to find a new one. Can you help me out?”

 

Fantine closed her gaping mouth and simply blinked those large dark eyes at him a few times, hand slowly rising and pointing behind her, “I...I think we have a spare that would match his old one. They're quite similar, if I remember right. Honey?”

 

Valjean was still rather dumbfounded but he was nodded, “I'll get it.”

 

“Thank you, dear,” Fantine put the tips of two fingers to her temple, “It's so good to hear you and Enjolras are getting along. But now I'll have to look him in the eyes and think of...how did you describe it again? It was so beautiful.”

 

“A rippling demi-god forged of sunlight and dreams,” Grantaire sighed.

 

“Yes.  _That_.”

 

Valjean shook himself when the doors to the front of the shop chimed, “Speaking of rippling gods of sunlight.”

 

It was indeed Enjolras who came through the door, sunglasses on his face and a satchel on his hip. He spotted Grantaire and the two owners, waving to greet them.

 

“I'm going to head upstairs, darling.”

 

Grantaire perked up, grinning at him, “I'll be up in a moment.”

 

Enjolras nodded, pulling out his phone and making his way toward the narrow staircase. The ravenette turned back to the couple, they noticed his cheer right away.

 

“ 'Darling'?” Fantine echoed teasingly.

 

“Hush,” but his scolding held no heat, “It is the most beautiful word I've ever heard coming from the man I've been besotted with since time began. Don't mock me, madame.”

 

“I believe you're exaggerating a little,” Valjean ruffled the boy's hair, laughing heartily now that he'd managed to suppress what he'd been heard, “You don't believe in all that soul-mate stuff, do you?”

 

“And what if I do?” Grantaire puffed, batting his hand away playfully.

 

“It just seems a bit silly for someone you're age,” Valjean's smile turned kinder, “You're so young, R.”

 

“Sometimes I don't feel it,” the student confessed, eyes sliding over the layout of the cafe, “Sometimes I feel... _older_ , you know? Worn out when I shouldn't be. Mostly it's when I drink, but I feel it when I'm around the others. I know it sounds strange. Nevermind.”

 

Fantine drew him into a hug, pressing an understanding kiss to his forehead, “Don't think on it another minute, my little love. You just enjoy yourself.”

 

“I'll try.”

 

* * *

**Gifsets for this chapter are[here](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/67446611868/no-grantaire-yelled-the-gag-snapping-under-his) and [here](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/67447491991/would-it-be-more-fair-if-i-showed-myself-to-you). One of them is kinda morbid because of the movie "Martyrs" - which I don't reccommend watching at all. It's just plain horror. **

**Pretty please review? It drives me like nothing else :) Plus, I want to make sure you guys have stuck around. I hope the delay didn't drive you all off. The suport you've been giving me is just lovely. Thank you! I hope you enjoyed it!**

  **If you've got a minute, check me out at[my Tumblr](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/) or follow this fic (and the crabfishing!au fic) at this blog over [here](http://paintandcrabs.tumblr.com/)**

 


	20. Chapter 20

Grantaire scratched the end of his sketch pencil under his knit hat, tilting his head back to let a thick ray of sunshine fall upon his cheek. It felt like a warm kiss. He treasured it for the simple pleasure it was before he went back to drawing out the heavy-trunked tree in the middle of the quad. The bench he'd taken up was smooth, polished, and wide enough to accommodate his art bag and the entirety of his body. He hummed and etched out the curls and breaks of the colored, dying leaves hanging onto the branches with all of their strength. Autumn was starting to draw to a close and everyone could sense it.

 

That, and finals were coming up.

 

“Grantaire!” a beautiful voice sang, a lithe body sliding over the back of the bench and fitting behind his own.

 

“She speaks!” Grantaire declared, moving up to let her slide in more comfortably, “Oh speak again, bright angel!”

 

“I've missed you horribly,” Éponine wrapped her arms around his neck, nuzzling into the nape of it, “You've been so wrapped up in your golden boy, you've forgotten your best friend.”

 

“I promise you, my beautiful 'Ponine, you are in my every other thought,” he leaned back into her, getting a little nuzzle across the forehead for his effort, “I've missed you too. What have you been up to?”

 

“Painting, writing, generally being a free spirit,” she started to weave a little collection of white flowers into the nest of his curls, pulling them from the skirt pocket she'd stuffed them into earlier, “I went on a date with Sebastian.”

 

“You're dance partner?” he gaped, recalling the handsome young man with hair like midnight and a smile that could seduce the devil, “Damn, he's beautiful. How did you manage that?”

 

“Bitch,” Éponine dropped a little warning nip on the back of his neck, “I walked by and he fell out of his chair. I thought it was time I gave him a chance.”

 

“And?” the artist prompted.

 

“And _nothing_ ,” Éponine shot back, “At least until you tell me how your second movie date went. I know the first was a disaster but you've been floating around since last weekend and you haven't bothered to share it with me.”

 

“It was normal,” Grantaire tried to shrug but she blew out a laugh against his skin, “I mean it!”

 

“I bet he used his pretty mouth on you, hm?” she whispered in his ear, her slim knees skimming along his ribs while, “Did you get your dick wet?”

 

“That's vulgar,” he scowled, trying to pull away only to get dragged back with a little chuckle.

 

“He did!” Éponine squealed, smacking a loud kiss to his cheek, “How was it? Was he as good as the bar girls say he is? Those lips were made for sucking cock, please tell me he's good?”

 

“Fantastic,” Grantaire reached back and tugged a lock of her hair, “But be quiet already before someone hears you. That's my boyfriend you're talking about.”  
  


“Oooo, _lovers_ ,” she drew out the word like ribbon, kissing his ear almost lovingly, “Tell me...did you do that embarrassing thing?”

 

He tugged harder at the lock, “ 'Ponine.”

 

Her grin was pure teeth, “Did you cry?”  
  


“Shut up!” Grantaire growled, trying to get at her even though she was clinging onto him like a monkey, “You little shit!”

 

“You did, didn't you?” Éponine gave another girly squeal, burying her face in his hair, “You _cried_ for him. Oh, I bet he loved it. You're so pretty when you cry.”  
  


“You're insane and much too comfortable with my sex life,” Grantaire tilted his head back, smiling as she gave him a little peck on the lips, “So – Sebastian?”

 

“He got to second base and I found out why he wears sweats instead of tights during practice,” Éponine hummed, “You should partner with him next time in class, get a feel for yourself.”

 

“I'm sure he's magnificent,” he twirled his pencil between his fingers, “But I'm satisfied with my current situation, thank you very much. A mere muse of the dance is nothing in comparison to the verifiable demi-god that was straddling me the other night.”

 

Éponine's jaw dropped, “Straddling? Oh, tell only truths, my dove.”  
  


“I do.”

 

“Ooo!” Éponine shivered visibly, taking a mouthful of his t-shirt in an effort to smother her excitement, “The thought of you two wrestling around enough to break a table is just – _ooo_!”

 

Grantaire shrugged effortlessly, “You're getting me all wet.”

 

“The feeling's mutual, _mon ami_.”

 

“You're disgusting!” Grantaire laughed, dropping his sketchpad to turn and start digging his fingers into her sides. She giggled, squirming around in his lap until he held her completely. They shared a long, private moment where they touched noses and just looked at one another.

 

“In another life, I would've married you,” Grantaire admitted abruptly.

 

“That's very sweet,” she tossed her hair over her shoulder, tapping him on the tip of the nose like she often did, “If only you would be so lucky. Stick to Apollo, R, he's the only one who can tolerate you for more than a few hours.”

 

*****

 

Grantaire leaned against a pillar next to the university's largest courtyard, keeping an eye on the steps. His messenger bag was heavy with art supplies, laying against his hip at a sharp angle. The sun was warming his front and he pushed into it, relishing it while it lasted. The world was dying but only for a new change.

 

He reached up and rubbed his chin. He had actually shaved earlier and he was hoping this particular change would be welcome to his partner. It wasn't that Enjolras had complained about his artistic scruff but the other was always so smooth, so clean, he just wanted to return the favor. Plus he'd seen the red rash that had burned itself down his friend's neck and it hadn't felt right to hurt him like that. He'd rather put love marks from mouth than scratches from his beard.

 

Grantaire finally spotted his demi-god spilling out of a hallway, eyes down on a book, a dozen other students milling around him. They were pale shadows of people in comparison to his Apollo, the man shining like a beacon once he stepped into the sun. He had no idea how the other students on campus didn't just stand around and gape at his beauty. It was a miracle anyone got anything done with the man just walking around like that, oblivious to his charm.

 

Grantaire jumped to action, jogging up until he could match the older man step for step, “Hello, beautiful.”  
  


Enjolras looked like he was about to refuse the compliment when he realized who he was. The blonde closed his book and tucked it away, his other hand reaching out to snag a couple curls between his fingers. Grantaire stole a small kiss, getting a hum for his effort. Those sweet little affections were still the most precious gifts he'd ever received and he selfishly hoarded each one.

 

“So, I was thinking about making us both dinner tomorrow night,” Grantaire threw out, “At your place, of course. It's stocked better than mine and much bigger. I want to show you the extent of my skill.”

 

“That sounds fantastic,” Enjolras eased them around a tight group of students who seemed to be holding a debate in the middle of the quad, “I have to work late.”

 

Grantaire's smile faltered, “Oh. Well, that's alright. We can try again another night. I should have given you more notice.”

 

“Oh hush,” Enjolras chastised lightly, pulling his keys out of his pocket and easing off a silver one, “You'll need this.”

 

“I'm sorry?” he took the key that was all but pushed into his palm.

 

“It's the key to my apartment,” Enjolras looked at him like he was speaking nonsense, “I'll be home around ten, is that alright?”

 

Grantaire almost swooned at the implication. Enjolras trusted him, truly so. He wanted him to go into his house while he wasn't there to cook, or snoop around if he wanted to. He felt his eyes water but he quickly blinked those away, refusing to make a scene. Tan knuckles brushed over his cheek, as if the older boy could sense the feelings welling up in his chest.

 

“Darling?”

 

The name made him smile, “Ten is perfect. I'll have everything ready.”

 

“Do you need my card to get anything?” Enjolras was already pulling out his wallet, “Anything you need, just-”

 

“No,” Grantaire gently pushed the blonde's hand back down, “I'll take care of it. You just bring your appetite and I'll destroy your kitchen.”

 

“Fair enough,” Enjolras stopped and hooked a finger in the younger's bag strap, dragging him in for a longer kiss that left them both light-headed, “I'm going to go work a quick library shift. I'll see you tomorrow, alright?”

 

“Mm-hmm,” he took another kiss, both smiling.

 

“Text me,” Enjolras murmured, reluctant to break the contact a second time.

 

“You know I can't resist.”

 

***

 

Grantaire was nearly finished with the _Coq au Vin_ when he heard the front door open. He quickly washed his hands under some warm water before going out to meet him.

 

Enjolras had already shed his blazer by the time he got in there, fingers tugging the knot of his tie down until it loosened up and hung around his throat. He looked worn out, little shadows under his eyes like he hadn't been sleeping well. To be honest, he looked human. Enjolras didn't seem to notice him as he hobbled over to the couch, letting his suitcase fall to the wayside. He kicked his feet up, head falling onto the back of the couch and stretching his arms out along the length of it. Not only human but beat down as well.

 

Grantaire ducked back in the kitchen to turn the burners off, putting the dish in the oven to finish cooking. He set the timer before going back to the living room, walking over to the couch. Enjolras hummed in acknowledgment but didn't open his eyes, though they strained as if he tried but found them too heavy.

 

Grantaire sat down on the coffee table, picking up the blonde's foot and putting it in his lap. He worked on the laces of the expensive leather shoes, refusing to contemplate just how long he could live on what it cost to get them.

 

Gold-spun lashes finally fluttered open, and he stirred with the effort to sit up, “No, don't.”  
  


“Stay still or I'll chuck them at you,” Grantaire kept going, “What happened at work today?”

 

“Some of those guys,” Enjolras groaned, hand coming up to rub at his temple, “They can't see the bigger picture. The higher ups are fine but the dregs are impossibly dull and as thick as hunks of wood. Idiots, every one of them. I don't know if they're intentionally short-sighted. I can't wait to move on from there.”

 

Grantaire frowned a little, “You're thinking of getting a different job?”

 

“I am,” Enjolras was barely keeping his eyes open as he watched the younger man pulled off his shoe, starting to work on the second one, “We graduate soon, do you realize that? Most of us, at least.”

 

“I try not to think about it,” he replied honestly.

 

“You should,” Enjolras moved up a little, two fingers still pressed to the source of his headaches, “Your future is important.”

 

“Not really,” he scoffed, tugging a little harder at tie than necessary, “The rest of you do so many things. I just paint and make jokes.”

 

“It's important to me,” Enjolras was much more awake now, “Much more than the future of 'Feyrac, Bousset, or any of them. I want you to be successful and happy.”

 

Grantaire finally got his shoes off, setting the pair aside, “Come eat.”

 

***

 

Grantaire was always a little thrown when he woke up in a bed that wasn't his own, but there was something about the embrace of Enjolras's pillows that made him want to stay under the spell of sleep. Unfortunately, it was only when said blonde was actually under the covers with him.

 

He sat up reluctantly, running his hand over his boyfriend's side of the bed and finding the sheets ice cold. He grumbled and swung his legs over the side, reluctantly padding across the thick carpet in half-asleep hopes of finding him. He was going to tell Enjolras just what he thought of puttering around at – he glanced at the wall clock – _seven_ in the morning.

 

Grantaire spotted the open bathroom door and headed toward it, taking care not to push it open any further before peeking inside. It was foggy and humid from a recently run shower, everything from the floor to the counters covered in a layer of moisture.

 

Enjolras was standing in front of the sink looking at his murky reflection, tan skin blotchy in places where the hot water had lingered longest. Grey sweatpants hung loose around his hips, turning dark where they'd absorbed some of the droplets. The stubble on his chin and cheeks from last night had grown in thicker in the lengthy hours since they'd gone to bed. Though it had been early, the blonde still looked like he hadn't seen a pillow.

 

He wanted to make a sarcastic remark but his tongue was all tied up in knots at a new sight.

 

Enjolras didn't often go shirtless but the few times he'd seen him, his chest had been smooth. Now there was hair, curls shaded a darker gold than his hair that covered his pecs and trailed down to his bellybutton before peeking out from the elastic of his pants. They were glorious. The older man had a shaving cream can in one hand while the other rubbed through the scruff along his neck.

 

“ 'Taire?” Enjolras seemed to flutter nervously for a moment, “I didn't hear you get up.”

 

Grantaire sauntered up to the orator, a smirk growing on his lips, “I didn't know you were such a man.”

 

An embarrassed blush touched his cheekbones, his own fingers laying on his chest as if to hide it, “I usually shave it. I, uh, don't know why but lately I've let it go. I haven't really planned on being with anyone besides you since the rally and I didn't think you'd see me so soon so-”

 

“Shut up,” Grantaire purred, running his hand through the silken curls to put a shiver through them both, “Don't ever shave again.”

 

Enjolras was stunned at the blatant command, disbelief rounding out his eyes. The artist flushed up into his dark hairline, though his fingers only twined deeper within the dark hair.

 

“Please?” his tone took on a more hesitant tone, “It looks so... _good_ , on you.”

 

“Really?” Enjolras smiled, leaning into the touch in hopes of restoring that confidence he adored so much.

 

“Mm-hmm,” Grantaire ducked down and brushed his nose against the curls, finding them just as smooth as the tresses on the top of the blonde's head, “It's amazing. I didn't think you could be more attractive.”

  
“Hm,” he hummed back, curling his fingers along the back of the younger man's neck.

 

“What?” Grantaire was busy touching the curls, admiring them as the other often did with his own hair.

 

“You didn't call me perfect,” Enjolras pointed out, scratching through his hair in a sweet imitation of a pet, “Usually you throw that in there somewhere.”

 

Grantaire frowned, tilting his head up until he could kiss the older boy's chin, “Does that bother you?”

 

“No!” Enjolras burst out, taking a swift kiss, “Not at all, darling. I actually appreciate it.”

 

The ravenette visibly brightened.

 

“But I am shaving my face.”

 

Grantaire put on an exaggerated pout, “We can't have any fun with it?”

 

“Fun?” he frowned.

 

“I can think of a few places I'd like to have some beard burn,” Grantaire grinned cattishly.

 

“Oh dear God above!” Enjolras laughed, bringing him in to nose at his cheek, “What have I got myself into?”

 

“Nothing good,” his grin flickered, his thick layer of insecurity showing through but just in that scant second.

 

“I'll be the judge of that.”

 

Enjolras kissed him until they both forgot how new and awkward this all should be.

 

***

 

That night, when Grantaire finally got around to leaving, he tried to give the key back.

 

“Don't you want it?” Enjolras frowned, looking down at the bit of metal in the artist's hand.

 

“Of course I do,” he cursed how eager he sounded, “It's just – you know – a big responsibility. It's a large step. I'm not sure if you know what this means to me.”

 

“You're horribly confusing,” the blonde admitted, “Don't you think this means the same to me?”  
  


Grantaire shook his head and it made his boyfriend sigh.

 

“I'm letting you into my life, just as you've let me into yours,” Enjolras curled their fingers around the key, the edges pushing into the ravenette's palm, “My home's open to you, R, no matter what. Don't ever think I don't want you here.”

 

Tears welled up in dark eyes, “Apollo, you're just.... _too much_.”

 

Enjolras smiled, bringing the younger man's hand up to kiss it, “I believe it's to make up for all those years of being 'not enough'.”

 

* * *

 **So the next chapter will be HUGE. So many things, so many feels. Greedily ask for reviews? Yes, thank you, I will. I have a sex scene to power through. Hope you guys are enjoying yourselves :) Thank you so much for the feedback, it means a lot.**  

 

 


	21. Grantaire's Regression, Jehan's Progress, and the Bottle

**Check the chapter count - I added a few. This chapter was getting to be 50 pages long, and that's with about ten pages just being pure outline. So I decided to split it up a little. I'm sorry - but I have most of it written. And a quick apology on Jehan and Feuilly - those kinky fuckers got away from me and they're just doing their own thing.**

* * *

“Joly?”

 

The medical student picked his head up from his book, taking a break from his small tantrum. He’d been beating his head off the page for the past few minutes as he cursed himself for not taking the time to study earlier in the week when he’d had so much time. All those naps and extra rotations at the clinic he’d taken were meager in comparison to the final he had in three weeks.

 

Joly didn’t spot anyone right away but he did give a start when a full cart of books started inching toward him. It turned itself to the side and revealed his crouching friend, now blocked from view of the front desk. Courfeyrac looked as run down as he’d ever seen him, red shadows of sleepless laying almost into his cheeks and nails bitten down to the quick. He hardly ever indulged in the bad habit anymore and it was strange to see his cuticles as red and swollen as they were. The ravenette kept his nest of hair below the line of thick books, probably hiding from his supervisor.

 

“Shouldn’t you be working?”

 

“Shouldn’t you be studying?” Courfeyrac shot back, though the usual heat was absent from his voice, “I need to talk to you.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

“It’s serious.”

 

“It always is,” Joly smiled fondly, shutting his book, “What have you done now?”

 

Out of all the problems and all their friends, Courfeyrac’s only came to him when he thought he had a STD. The boy (and though Courfeyrac was older, he still mentally labeled him a _boy_ ) had been sleeping with sluttier and filthier girls as years went on. Naught a girlfriend in the bunch, though, just a heavy handed string of one night stands. He’d had gonorrhea twice just this year.

 

“Did you know Combeferre was in love with me?”

 

“Those are strong words,” Joly watched him carefully as he spoke the words in a deliberately slow cadence, “Why do you think that?”

 

“You knew!” he accused in a sharp whisper.

 

“Well…”

 

“The secret is out, Jol, he asked me to dinner.”

 

“Oh,” the brunette pursed his lips, cursing Combeferre for not texting him a warning, “And what did you say?”

 

“No, of course,” Courfeyrac pulled a sour face, “Everyone knows I’m – well – you _know_.”

 

“I’ve told you before, ‘Rac,” Joly bent down a little lower so they could whisper properly, “Love, sexuality, morals, and beliefs cannot be labeled in black and white terms. There’s no ‘is’ or ‘is not’. There’s only personal feelings and which way they lead.”

 

“That’s complete rubbish,” the ravenette cursed, “I’m not like R and Enjolras. I like girls. Pretty, nice smelling, soft, curvy, hour-glass-figure _girls_. Breasts are the greatest gift from God since the ability to write and bottled beer.”

 

“And Combeferre doesn't?” Joly raised a speculative brow, “As if you don't see Enjolras's eyes roaming over a nice form now and then? I swear, you're the only one of us who has this hang-up on being labeled homosexual.”

“I'm not!” Courfeyrac snapped his mouth shut once he realized how loud he was being.

 

“Just think on it for a moment,” the medical student tapped his pen against the table, “You find Éponine attractive, right?”

 

“Of course, she's gorgeous,” the boy shot back.

 

“And her friend Gabrielle?”

 

A nod, “She's downright heavenly.”

 

“What about Grantaire?” Joly pushed, “He's got the same glossy curls as Gabrielle. Their mouths and skin are similar.”

“She is...kind of small chested,” Courfeyrac's brows furrowed together, “They do look a little alike.”

 

“In a dark room...?” he prompted.

 

“I probably couldn't tell the difference,” Courfeyrac admitted reluctantly.

 

“And E? Don't you find him handsome?”

  
“I've always had a thing for blondes,” the older boy sat down on the floor, face all pinched up in thought, “And he's _Enjolras_ , for God's sake. Everyone thinks he's attractive.”

 

Joly tried not to hold his breath, “What about Combeferre?”

  
“Of course not, he's my friend. Friends can't be hot.”

 

“But don't you find him the least bit desirable?”

 

Courfeyrac's fingers started to twiddle in his lap, “ 'Ferre is rather smart, isn't he? I've never known someone besides Enjolras who could best me in a debate. He's...kind, and attentive. Loyal. And strong. Did you see him during the riot? He pulled three men off me with his bare hands. He saved my life and all my teeth. He looked so fiercesome. He had all that blood on him and he practically plucked me up onto his back with one hand. He found me when no one else was looking. He shacked up with me when I got kicked out of my place. He's done more for me than anyone ever has. God, I'm an idiot!”

 

Courfeyrac buried his face in his hands, the last few words ending on a self-loathing whine.

 

“You two have always been close, even when you were just working together to help Enj,” Joly spoke softly, praying he didn't upset the ravenette any further, “Recently he's confessed to me that he cares for you more than he realized. I didn't know if he'd make a move or not. He was so distraught over the whole thing.”

 

“I've ruined it,” dark curls bounced as he shook his head back and forth, sniffing sharply to keep any wayward tears away, “He was so nice but I probably completely wrecked the entire thing. He asked me to dinner and I said, 'Don't we always get dinner?'. Like a total jackass. I said all these stupid things and now they all sound so mean.”

 

“Oh, 'Rac,” Joly huffed miserably.

 

“Please tell me it's just a stupid crush!” Courfeyrac reached out and grabbed the brunette by the knee, “Tell me he's not really in love with me?”

 

“He's not really in love with you,” Joly replied, deadpan.

 

“I'm a bastard, aren't I?” Courfeyrac sagged against the book cart, fingers falling dejectedly from the man's leg, “I've hurt one of my best friends so deeply and-”

 

“And what?” he urged, tapping him with his foot.

 

“I was wrong.”

 

Joly actually dropped his pen, “What?”

 

“I think I was wrong about how I felt,” Courfeyrac fisted a hand in his locks, nearly pulling them how, “I've never thought of him romantically before that moment and he just sprang on me so suddenly – I said things I'm not sure I meant. I don't know! I keep thinking it over, wondering what I would've said differently, and if he'd asked me today instead I believe I would do it differently. Maybe I'm crazy, maybe I'm only wanting something I'm sure I can't have anymore – but I want to say yes. I want to go back in time and accept and I don't know what to do about it.”

 

“Breathe, please,” Joly started rooting through his bag, pulling out an inhaler and pushing it into the ravenette's hands, “Here.”

 

“I don't know how to use this!” Courfeyrac protested, pointedly shaking the canister but clinging to it with white fingers, “What am I going to do, Joly? Ignore it?”

 

“What makes you think you'll have to do that?”

“Because I already trashed my chance and after what I said he won't want me,” Courfeyrac tasted the words he'd just said, fingers lightening up a bit on the inhaler, “Not – not that I care if he does.”

 

“You care, 'Rac,” Joly turned in his seat, reaching out with both hands and grabbing each side of the ravenette's face, “Listen close, because I'll only say this once.”

 

Courfeyrac obediently stared up at him, willing to take any advice he could get.

 

“I've watched two of the most stubborn, most deserving people I've ever met dance around each other for two years. I've defended them, I've treated them, and I've given them as much advice as I'll probably ever give anyone else,” Joly squeezed his cheeks a little, “And though they were both sure the other didn't want them and they both just _knew_ it would never work, I've also watched them come together to bloom into the most lovely couple God ever created. And it only happened because one of them dared to bare himself completely.”

 

Courfeyrac's lashes were wet but no tears fell. He nodded.

 

“Combeferre is a good man, and I've seen how much he cares for you,” Joly continued, starting to smile, “If you go to him with your pure intentions, I know he'll be accepting. He's probably hurting just as much as you are now and only you can fix one another. Do you understand?”

 

He nodded again, slower this time.

“Now stop blubbering on the floor. Remember who you are, for God's sake,” the medical student gave him a firm smack on the side of the head, “ 'Ferre may be wonderful and everything, but so are you. Just as much so.”

 

It seemed to be what Courfeyrac needed to hear. He jumped to his feet and scrubbed a hand over his face, that casual smile of his coming back onto his lips. Thankfully, he looked like himself again.

 

“I need to go shelve all these before three,” the law student stated, grabbing the side of the cart, “Thanks, Jol. I knew I could count on you.”

“You and everybody else,” Joly griped good-naturedly, listening to the other laugh as he wheeled away. Once he was sure he was alone once more, he dropped his head back to his closed book.

 

“I need my own love life.”

 

*****

 

The first night they tried to have sex started with a simple text message.

 

Grantaire popped out an ear bud before picking up his phone, abandoning his homework when he saw it was from his Apollo.

 

**There's a special event tonight at Musée des Beaux-Arts de Rouen. A professor of mine has offered extra credit to anyone who goes. I find myself sorely needing the points and without a proper guide. Perhaps you know a handsome painter who could explain to me the foundations of Impressionism and fine tune my basic understanding of the importance of lighting in Baroque style paintings? - E**

 

Grantaire raised a brow at the screen.

 

**Is that your way of asking me to teach you about art? Does that mean there's something that the great Enjolras doesn't know? - R**

 

The reply came back so fast he didn't have a chance to put his phone down.

 

**That's a way of asking my boyfriend to accompany me to an art museum so I can listen HIM talk for a change – E**

 

Another message quickly followed.

 

**You've put up with enough of my ranting for a lifetime. It'll be nice to have you show off for me – E**

 

Grantaire glanced around for any onlookers before he adjusted the growing bulge in his jeans. The bastard knew what that kind of talk did to him.

 

**I'll take your silence as a yes. Casual wear, no hat, shave – E**

 

**Yes, sir – R**

 

***

 

They left the museum late into the night and drunk off one another, fingers laced and noses brushing as the stumbled their way to the car. Grantaire couldn't stop gushing about the artists he'd seen, about how his boyfriend (their new word of the night) had liked some of his favorite pieces. Enjolras drove them back to the younger man's loft, both laughing like young boys as they joked about some of the horrendously snooty patrons they had encountered. A particularly drunk woman had nearly thrown up on an original Philippe de Champaigne piece. Grantaire had been the one to push her out of the firing range.

 

“I thought her husband was going to combust with embarrassment,” Grantaire pushed the door open, missing the light switch when he wen to flick it on, “He was so red.”

 

“She won't be going back there any time soon,” Enjolras closed the door behind, latching it shut, “That one piece, though. What was it? 'Saint Sebastian attended by Irene' or something? The clothes looked so real! I was sure I could touch them if I tried. It was fantastic.”

 

“I'm glad you liked it,” Grantaire flicked on a lamb above his drafting table, a clean glow filling the bottom half of the room, “Did you want to put a movie on? I just downloaded that new superhero film and Jehan has been begging me to watch it.”

 

“I've got a better idea,” Enjolras eased up behind him, wrapping his fingers around the younger man's belt, “Why don't we call it a night?”

 

Grantaire shot out of his grip, grinning cattishly as he backed up toward the ladder that led up to his bed, “Why, _m_ _onsieur_ , if I didn't know any better I'd say you were trying to get me into bed.”

“How convenient,” the blonde shed his blazer, letting it fall to the floor in a crumpled pile, “Because I believe that's my goal.”

 

“Devil,” he bit out.

 

“Demon,” Enjolras snapped back just as quick, coming at him. Grantaire laughed in delight, climbing the ladder as grasping fingers teased at the line of his pants. It was a short game of chase between the two of them, the blonde man grabbing him up by the waist. They wrestled on the bed, pulling at clothes and sharing heated kisses as they tried not to knock their elbows and knees off the bed frame.

 

“My favorite blasphemous creature,” Enjolras murmured into his jaw, nipping the freshly shaved skin. The artist squirmed happily under the other man's weight, throwing him over and straddling his hips. He started to shed his long sleeve shirt, moaning outright as fingers traced the lines of his ribs. The loft was chillier than he'd realized, the air kissing his bare skin in a more unforgiving way than his lover had.

 

A sudden wave of self-consciousness crashed over his libido, almost drowning it as he pulled the material away. His torso now bare, he became hyper-aware of the softness of his stomach and disproportion of his torso. No matter how many walls he scaled or how many trash cans he vaulted over, he could never get his weight to even out. He was always too much or not enough of something and he'd gotten so caught up in his boyfriend's heady kisses that he'd forgotten how much he'd been trying to hide it.

 

Enjolras's thumbs met just above his belly button, the older man holding him steady and looking him over, “If I only I could get you in some proper light. I've yet to see you completely naked and you have me at a disadvantage.”

 

“I'm not nearly as impressive, love, I promise you that,” Grantaire was breathless as he rocked shamelessly down into the other, loving every inch of firm muscle beneath him, “If you could see me 'properly', you'd-”

 

“Come in an instant?” Enjolras cut him off, sitting up and hugging him close as he started kissing at his throat. Teeth grazed his skin and he shuddered, the air taking an aggressive turn that he couldn't help but drink in. A change came over Enjolras, the older man putting a palm flat on his shoulder before forcing him back down on the bed. It was sudden and it forced a surprised breath out of his lungs but he enjoyed it, grinning as the man covered him once more.

 

It was everything he'd ever dreamed of. Enjolras took every inch of his mouth like it was his birthright, fitting himself between the artist's thighs. Their hands bumped into one another, one set working on a belt while the other paler set started unhooking pearly buttons from a fine dress shirt.

 

“We've never discussed our position preference,” Enjolras stated, sucking a pretty mark just below the younger man's clavicle, “Would you rather top or-?”

 

“Fuck no,” Grantaire's heart fluttered as he heard his own belt buckle clink and slide off the bed, “After all this time – if you don't fuck me, I'll be sorely disappointed.”

 

“Try not to think of it as something so common as _fucking_ ,” the blonde scolded, breath ghosting hot over a dark nipple, “This has been long in the making. Can we not upgrade our tryst to...?”

 

He trailed off as Grantaire dug his hand into blonde tresses and pulled, his words disappearing into a needy sound, “What? Sex? Coitus? If you call it intercourse, I may have to start laughing at you, my walking Adonis.”

 

“What of lovemaking?” Enjolras's head was bowed again, face hidden as he kissed a delicate path down to the swell of the younger man's stomach, “Can we not call it that?”

 

“Yes,” Grantaire breathed, blushing as he realized he was leaking into his underwear like a pre-teen, “I'd like that.”

 

Enjolras smiled up at him before their eyes fell closed and they met in another kiss, losing themselves once more. The blonde's button-up was pushed down his shoulders, joining the other's belt on the floor. They sought friction with each grind of their hips, taking the rough pleasure as their hands explored whatever they could find. Enjolras pushed open the fly of his jeans and he moaned encouragingly into his mouth, the older man's hand going down the back of his pants. Those strong fingers he'd often sketched curled along the curve of his ass, brushing across his hole for the first time. But the digits were chilled from the air, firm and as unyielding as-

 

“ _Come on, you little whore. I know you want to get hard for me. We'll spear you up, baby. Fill that pretty mouth and your tight ass 'til you're stuffed with us. You'll never feel empty again.”_

 

A warm laugh against his jaw.

 

“ _P-Please, 'Parnasse, lemme go...I don' want...”_

 

“You sound so wanton. Have you no shame?”

_“You do, baby, you want it.”  
_

 

“ _No, I...”_

 

“No!” he raked his nails across the shade of Montparnasse's image, twisting away, “Don't you fucking touch me!”

 

*

 

He couldn't breathe. A high pitched ringing filled the space between his ears.

 

Grantaire was vaguely aware that he had his face buried in the pillow and his arms over his head, curled around it protectively. His knees were drawn up and tucked into his stomach. A single hand was laying along his chest, fingers spanning over his lungs and heart. The hand heaved with his chest, his body desperately drawing in great big breaths to compensate for everything else shutting down. A calm, steady voice started to register past the ringing.

 

“I'm the only one here. It's just me. I'm not going to leave you. Take all the time you need, R.”

 

Grantaire managed to pry his eyes open for just a few moments, and what little of the room he could see was darker than it had been before. He couldn't tell how much time had passed but he was slowly starting to become aware of the ache growing within his limbs. The world slowly stopped spinning, focusing down to his own heartbeat and the hand retreating from his chest. The weight of someone shifted behind him, that same person carefully moving over him and settling down again. Even when he refused to look, he wasn't scared by the hand that gently coaxed one of his hands down from their death grip on his hair.

 

“Apollo?” he whispered hesitantly, hoping that it wasn't anyone else.

 

“Yes, darling, remember to breathe,” feather light kisses were dusted across his knuckles, the ends of his fingers, “Breathe and come back to me.”

 

Grantaire forced himself to open his eyes and come back to reality, slipping it on like an old glove. Enjolras half curled beside him, lower on the bed than he was. He had his hand up to his mouth and he was bussing his full lips across the skin, a desperate look upon his handsome face. He still had his jeans on and his undershirt, forcing him to remember just what they'd been doing. He himself was bare chested and his pants were open, but a blanket was tucked around his waist to keep him warm.

 

Enjolras looked up at him and in that moment he realized what color those eyes were. His best bondi blue paint, if mixed with a common steel color, would recreate that shade. He could finally finish his painting.

 

“What happened?” Grantaire sounded like he'd been munching on tacks, even to his own ears, “How long?”

 

“A half hour, maybe,” Enjolras pushed up so they were face to face, looking relieved but smartly keeping his distance, “I'm so glad you're alright. I texted Joly and he told me to stay close but not to touch you. But I had to, I couldn't just let you lay there and think you were alone. You stopped making noise when I...when I put my hand on you.”

 

There were faint pink lines on the older man's cheek, one bloody line catching into his dark gold eyebrow.

 

“I'm sorry,” his eyes watered up as he started to realize just what he'd done, recalling the way he'd lashed out and ruined a perfectly good moment, “I...I don't know what happened. I thought – fuck, I don't know what I thought.”

 

“Don't apologize, please,” white teeth dragged over his lower lip, “It's my fault. I pushed you too hard, too fast. I should have known to be more careful. I'm more sorry than you know.”

  
“No!” Grantaire sat up, worry still infecting his heart, “I don't know what's wrong. I know you're not him. We were doing so well, I finally got you here and then..Jesus, E, don't be angry.”

 

“I am the farthest thing from angry. I'm just happy you're alright,” Enjolras laid a hand on his arm, “Can we just rest for a bit? I think we've both had enough excitement.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Come here.”

 

Grantaire made a sound close to a sob and buried himself in the blonde's welcoming embrace. They stayed in their clothes, arms around one another as the darkness of the room turned into something less intimidating. Arousal faded into affection as their breathing synchronized, tan hand rubbing across the length of the younger man's shoulders before coming up to card through dark hair. After a few long minutes they spoke of his panic attack. Grantaire confessed what he saw and felt, at least what he remembered, and the older man listened closely to note the triggers. The moment he mentioned his cold fingers feeling faintly like the bottle the men had used, Enjolras felt a stab of guilt. It was eased by the younger man's reassurance but it didn't fade completely.

 

“These are lovely,” he started playing with the artist's curls, letting them cling to his fingers, “I know I've said it before, but it still holds true.”

 

“I'm glad you think so,” Grantaire's laugh was light, starting to feel better.

 

“You know if you never want to have sex, I'd respect your decision?” Enjolras stated honestly, just as calm as if he were talking about a change in the weather.

 

Grantaire snorted, a fingertip tracing the neckline of the man's shirt, “You're lying.”

 

The blonde gently rolled him onto his back, a softer imitation of the wrestling match they'd had earlier. Those large hands cradled his weight so he sank down into the mattress, the blanket keeping his modesty covered for the most part.

 

“I'm not,” Enjolras tucked his knuckles beneath the artist's jaw and tilted his head back, brushing their noses in a painfully sweet gesture that melted his heart, “I won't hurt you anymore.”

 

“Besides,” full lips pulled in a smile before he pecked a kiss onto the other's mouth, “If I abstain from sex, I'll have more time to dedicate to political action. It's a win-win.”

 

“You bastard!” Grantaire grabbed a pillow and swatted the blonde over the head with it, “You just don't want to have sex with me!”

 

“Oh, is that it?”

 

That started another boyish romp, smacking each other with any pillow they could find and trying to one-up one another. Laughter filled the room again, blankets coming in to play as they tried to cover up the other. It was an enjoyable chaos, restoring some of the mood that had been ruined. Enjolras observed his boyfriend's mood and genuine recovery, wondering just how far he could push it.

 

“If I get a little rough, is that alright?” he inquired lightly, trying not to give away his hand.

 

Grantaire's ears reddened at the tips, “R-Rough? You?”

 

“For a moment?” Enjolras amended, “I'll stop if an instant if it makes you uncomfortable.”

 

“Go ahead,” he looked down at the bedding, “I think I'm alright now.”

 

The blonde curled his hands under the boy's thighs and pulled him in, seating him on his lap and pinning him against the wall.

 

“Enjolras!” Grantaire moaned freely, wrapping his legs and arms around the older man in eager submission. Pearly whites bit down on his pulse, giving a sharp suck that promised a colorful bruise tomorrow morning. The sensation sent a bolt of lust through his groin and into his cock, driving a whine that he was sure the man could taste beneath his tongue.

 

“Since the moment you agreed to have me, I've thought of little else than how tight and hot you'd be around my cock,” Enjolras poured the words right into his ear, fingers tweaking a dark nipple as his hips rocked enticingly into the generous cradle of the younger man's hips, “I bet I could get you to come from just my fingers. You'd moan and plead for more, you'd flutter around me, and you'd do it all while looking more beautiful than anything I've ever seen. God, you're pretty when you come. I'd bend you over in front of me, shove your face into the pillow and lick your little hole until you cried.”

 

Grantaire's head thumped against the wall, eyes falling closed, “My god, my Apollo...”

 

“To fuck you would be the most exquisite gift,” Enjolras kissed him briefly, “I would never try to negotiate my way out of it. When that time comes – if it ever does – I will be a blessed man.”

 

“Want to try again?” Grantaire offered on the crest of a whimper.

 

“Not tonight,” Enjolras shook his head, softening up, “Let's take a shower?”

 

“The both of us?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Enjolras went to flick the light to the bathroom but got his hand batted away.

 

“There's plenty of light,” Grantaire kissed him, glancing at the lamp over the drawing board.

 

“You just wish to rob me of my reward,” the blonde accused, stripping off his shirt and tossing it to the floor.

 

“Reward?”

 

“To see all of you,” Enjolras ran his eyes over the handsome curves over his boyfriend's body, “Please?”

 

“You don't have to ask,” Grantaire hooks his thumbs in the line of his jeans and easily shucked them off, grinning easily as he backed up toward the shower, “If it's what you want, who am I to deny a god his request?”

 

“One day, God will strike us both down for your false worship,” but it was laughed out, like the whole thing was a familiar joke. Grantaire shed his boxers and flashed him a wink, pulling open the door of the stall and starting the water. He turned it up hot, listening to the sound of another pair of pants falling to the floor.

 

Despite his cocky persona, once the other couldn't see his face he bit his lip and fought off a blush. This was the first time he'd been stripped completely in front of his boyfriend and a fine simmer of nerves hid beneath his skin. But all that faded away when an equally naked Enjolras backed him up beneath the spray, the hot water falling over both of them. They kissed as the room filled up with steam, slick fingers digging into the wet planes of muscle and mapping out soapy paths to be followed later with tongues and lips.

 

“We're not doing this unless I get to wash your hair,” Grantaire was unyielding in this demand, tugging a soaked lock of hair, “I've wanted to for a long time.”

 

“That's disturbing.”

“Your body is the temple for wish I choose to worship at,” he shrugged, unconcerned with being judged for his long-standing obsession with everything that was Enjolras, “Maybe the thought of shampoo in your hair gets me off. Did you ever consider that?”

 

“Did you ever consider that I may want to see every inch of you spread out in front of me with the lights on so I can memorize my lover?”

 

The words stunned the ravenette into silence, body pliant enough to be pushed up against the stall.

 

“Apollo,” Grantaire rasped, letting the older man turn him around. He braced his elbows on the wall, moaning pitifully as Enjolras pressed up behind him. Their bodies fit so well together, the water making them slide deliciously. The blood rush to his cock almost made him dizzy, and from the thick flesh he could feel skimming his ass he knew the other was in the same state.

 

“Did you change your mind?” he tilted his head back, spotting passion-swamped eyes, “Are you going to fuck me?”

 

“No, darling,” Enjolras's hand wrapped around his cock, the first few strokes making him groan in surprise, “I want to feel you spill across me hand. Is that alright? Would you come for me like this?”

“Yes,” Grantaire nodded tightly, resting his forehead against the glass, “Anything, E, anything for you. Please just...just don't stop.”

 

“You don't have to beg me,” he nosed under the boy's ear, rocking into him with each stroke, “I'll gladly give you anything you want.”

 

The room heavy with steam, the thick air weighing in their lungs. The older man's fingers weren't as rough as his own but they ten times better striping across his cock, thumb occasionally rubbing over the smooth head of his cock. Enjolras's other hand played with his nipples, making him throb within the man's palm.

 

“I look forward to doing this for many years to come,” Enjolras was thrumming with the power he had over the younger man, savoring the sight and feel of the moment, “I want to learn every possible way to make you come. You won't want anyone else.”

 

“I never have,” Grantaire smacked his fist onto the tile, belly trembling as the heat became almost smothering. He could feel the exquisite pressure at the base of his stomach and it threatened to bubble over any moment. He wanted it to last. He wanted to relish the praise, the way they fit together, the raw pleasure.

 

Enjolras dug his teeth across his shoulder. “Let me feel it.”

 

Grantaire's knees shook like a newborn colt's, a choked off cry sticking in his throat as he came. He leaned harder on the stall, whining lowly as he felt himself spill over the man's hand. Enjolras wrung every drop out of him, stroking and squeezing the skin until he was too sensitive for it to feel good anymore. He didn't have to say anything, the man stopped the moment he cringed and pulled him into a hug instead.

 

“I've got you.”

 

Grantaire's moan was fainter now, enjoying the buzz of his orgasm as his boyfriend tilted him under the still-warm spray. He got chaste kisses as Enjolras soaped up his hands again and ran them over his skin, wiping away sweat and the evidence of his enjoyment. The world felt right again. Like it had been put back on its axis, set in balance by a simple climax. No. Not _simple_.

 

“Perfect,” he muttered under his breath.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Nothing,” Grantaire blinked back into the world, sluggishly grabbing the bottle of shampoo, “Give me your head.”

 

“Why? Aren't you satisfied?” he crowded in on the ravenette and nibbled at the tender skin just under his jaw, “Would you like to spill in my mouth as well?”

“Oh God, stop,” Grantaire stole his mouth in a punishing kiss, half just to shut him up, “You can't keep talking like that or we're going to get a lot further than you want tonight – my recovery time be damned.”

 

“I was just teasing,” Enjolras promised with a smile, though he still looked rough with lust, “You must be exhausted. After this we'll get to bed.”

 

“Mm-hmm,” Grantaire smoothly dropped to his knees, setting the bottle down beside him and looking up at the blonde, “After _this_ and I wash your hair, yes we are.”

 

“It's okay, you don't have to,” Enjolras touched his shoulder, eyes wide in surprise, “I'll be alright. You're tired, darling, I wouldn't ask you to-”

Grantaire swallowed down the thick flesh of his cock and silenced the orator.

 

***

 

Grantaire rolled over in his sleep, banging his elbow off the edge of the frame and knocking himself out of sleep. His eyes snapped open, hand digging through the covers for someone he was quickly realizing wasn't there. The sun was barely starting to trickle through the window but he could see that Enjolras wasn't there anymore. How long had he been gone? Had he snuck out while he slept? He wracked his brain trying to remember if the older man had work or a meeting but there was nothing. There was just more memories of their date and how he had freaked out the moment he'd been touched.

 

Grantaire dug his palms into his eyes. Oh God, he'd been so stupid. Of course Enjolras had left. He'd made a big deal out of nothing and he'd probably set them back by weeks. He was surely upset about the blue balls, maybe even angry for getting strung along all night only to change his mind. It was something manipulative dames did. He might as well have claimed a headache.

 

“... _thirty-five causalities have been reported_...”

 

“Hn?” he dropped his hands, heaving himself around to look out into the living room.

 

Enjolras was sitting on the floor with paperwork spread out all around him, a pile of it braced on his knee as he filled it out. The man had mounted his tablet on the table with the news playing at a low volume, not nearly loud enough to wake him. His hair was wet and slicked back, skin all pink from the heat of a shower. His clothes were deliciously rumpled but as Grantaire strained his ears he could make out the steady _thump-thump-thump_ of the washing machine.

 

“E?”

 

“Hm?” the blonde tilted his head back to show off the dark frames of his glasses, and the moment their eyes met he broke into a smile, “It's still early, love. You should go back to sleep.”

 

Grantaire shielded his eyes from the light, scooting back a little under the cover of shadow, “Where's my nest?”

 

“It's in the wash, I'll put it back in a little while,” Enjolras assured him, “Go back to sleep. I'll have something ready to eat when you wake up.”

 

Grantaire smiled softly as a fond warmth spread through his chest and down into his limbs, he nodded, “Thanks.”

 

Golden brows furrowed a little but his own smile stayed, “It's no problem.”

 

*****

 

The window was cracked. Jehan could feel the breeze floating in, skimming across his bare chest and cooling the skin enough to give him goosebumps. He was sprawled out on his back, head laying heavy in the fat swell of his pillow. The curtains were a simple cream with white trim, something he'd picked out when he'd first moved in to the apartment.

 

Jehan slowly slid a palm across his stomach, fingers tracing the edges of a bite mark beside his belly button. In all honesty he had a pile of homework to be doing, something Combeferre had been harping on him to do since the start of the week. He'd tried to finish his art research paper every night for the past few days but every painted knight reminded him of Enjolras and every pale youth with a head full of raven curls was just another Grantaire. Through everything they'd managed to remain friends but there was something different on his end. With the blinds of love forcibly ripped from his eyes he'd been forced to look at him again, to analyze what he thought he knew and what was actually true. Though Grantaire was his dear friend, he'd made a decision not to belittle his self worth by being in love with someone who was already taken. He was worth more.

 

Strangely enough, it sounded like Feuilly in his head.

 

Jehan rolled onto his side, resettling into the mass of pillows. The bed shifted behind him, a low grumble echoing through the quiet room. A hand, broader and rougher than his own, curled along the slight dip of his waist and inched up his chest. A heavy body rolled up against his own, coarse chest hair scratching the tender skin of his back. Lips settled at the nape of his neck, laying honeyed kisses as one blunt finger dragged the edge of a nail across his nipple. Jehan gave a whine and pushed back, the mouth-bruised peak hurting so wonderfully. The long, hard line of his lover's cock rubbed teasingly at the cleft of his ass. It was enough to stir a flame into his gut.

 

“I managed to seduce you, _monsieur_ ,” Jehan drawled, the last word fading in a gasp as the edge of the canines ran over the knob of his spine.

 

“You're a child, my poet,” Feuilly grinned wolfishly against the flesh, “If anything, _I_ snared _you_.”

 

“Literally,” Jehan raised a hand, both of them checking over the reddened ring around his wrist from the scarves they'd used.

 

“So beautiful,” Feuilly murmured like a private prayer, hand caressing down until the pads of his fingers traced the smooth line of his hip bone, “You fluttered like a bird beneath me.”

 

Jehan could still remember how shamelessly he'd begged for his friend to fuck him and it made his cheeks burn hot in embarrassment.

 

“Why are you awake?” Feuilly asked suddenly, craning his neck briefly to check the alarm clock, “It's barely seven.”

 

“I was just thinking,” Jehan replied, translucent lashes fluttering wildly as the older man finally touched his cock.

 

“About?” he pressed.

 

“Nothing really.”

 

Feuilly thumbed the head, grinning when he felt it twitch, “Grantaire?”

He frowned guiltily, “No.”

 

“It's alright,” Feuilly manhandled him onto his back, tossing back the covers so he could properly straddle the younger man, “He's one of your best friends. I didn't expect you to get over him after one night with me.”

 

His grin was roguish, “Though I would've been flattered.”

 

“It's not in the way you think,” Jehan shyly drank in the sight of the body that had given him so much pleasure just a few hours before, “I was just taking stock of my heart.”

Feuilly's laugh was good-natured, “You're a hopeless romantic.”

 

“Maybe just hopeless?”

 

“I think not,” the brunette's large hand curled around his neck and drew him up until he had to get on his elbows, forcing the boy to strain toward him, “I don't waste my time on hopeless causes. You are something to work for.”

 

Their kiss was brief but only because Jehan could never quite keep his mouth shut when he had something good going.

 

“How long?”

 

“Mm?” Feuilly hummed against his lips, trying to get another kiss.

 

“How long have you wanted me like this?” Jehan questioned, eyes round in awe as he realized that the man was more attached than he'd been letting on. Feuilly frowned and sat back, unashamed of his nudity as he rolled and stretched his muscles from his perch.

 

“Jehan...”

 

“Please?”

 

“Fine,” he sighed, “Do you remember the day Courfeyrac introduced us?”

 

The blonde pulled a face, “I believe so, yes.”

 

“I do. In detail,” Feuilly's fingers were now more innocent in their exploration of the student's sotmach, “You were in the garden outside Lesgle's home. You, Éponine, and Grantaire were sitting in the middle of his mother's flower bed in the this crude circle. You all were...braiding these purple flower chains onto one another's heads. You were all in white and your hair was starting to curl. The others didn't see me. You jumped up and ruined what you'd done to R's hair. You were waving at me and smiling, _yelling_ that you'd heard all about me even though we were on our way over to you. I understood then that you were a glutton for attention.”

 

“I'd been waiting all day for you,” Jehan admitted bashfully, “ 'Feyrac said you had a motorcycle and you'd never been to college. You sounded...I don't know.”

 

“What?” Feuilly tried to tease, “Uncultured?”

 

“Dangerous,” he confessed, teeth catching the swell of his lower lip.

 

“Oh, sweetheart, how you tempt me,” Feuilly growled lowly, covering the younger man as quick as a snake and catching his smooth jaw in the cradle of his palm, “I feel as if I could crush you with too harsh a touch. You seem to fall open for me, Prouvaire.”

 

“ ' _Au contact de ses lèvres, elle s'épanouit pour lui comme une fleur et l'incarnation était complet'_ ,” Jehan quoted breathlessly.

 

“Yes, a flower,” his smirk was all teeth, “My sweet poet. My little bird.”

 

“Anything,” he shuddered, praying he wouldn't be rejected, “As long as I'm yours.”

 

Feilly moved back just enough to properly look the boy over, “I don't know why you'd want to stick yourself to an on old man like me but I'm ready to hold onto you as long as I can.”

 

Jehan's brilliant smile only lasted a few moments before he was flipped onto his stomach, exposed and arms folded beneath his head. A sharp smack to his cheek forced a yelp past his lips. The sting went through his cock, renewing his carnal appetite.

 

“I'll forgive it this time, but no more thinking about Grantaire while you're in bed with me,” Feuilly ordered, laying a second smack to reddened flesh, “Is that understood?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Jehan gasped, pushing into the third blow, “Oh, Daddy, _please_.”

 

The older man covered him again, his thick length brushing teasingly over his hole (still slick from their last romp), “You called me that last night, sweetheart. Is that what you're into?”

 

“Shut up,” Jehan implored pathetically, arching his back and spreading his thighs a bit to present himself as desirably as possible, “Just touch me.”

 

“You're so eloquent, my poet,” Feuilly snarled mockingly, scoring his nails across the heated swell of the boy's ass, “Give me something a little better than that.”

 

“ ' _My soul nurtures a secret, my heart a mystery_!' ” Jean started reciting in a rushed, desperate tone that made him sound as if he was going to spill over the sheets at any moment, “ ' _A lasting love I conceived in a brief moment. I...I bear without a word its hopeless pain's torment and the one who caused it will know of it hardly_.' ”

 

Jehan hitched in a few breaths, eyes screwed closed, “ ' _Alas, I would walk near her, yet to be unnoticed. A-Always at her side and always will be lonely. Thus will I...I pass m-my time on this earth so weary – daring to ask for nothing, nothing to receive_ ' .”

 

Feuilly laid another blow upon his abused ass.

 

“Is that good enough?” Jehan tried to sound angry but it only came out like a plea, a boy begging for acceptance.

 

“That was beautiful, sweetheart,” Feuilly's left hand clamped down onto the back of his neck, “One more thing. I need you to promise me something.”

 

“Yes,” he promised without a thought. The brunette's grasp tightened almost painfully, forcing him to toss his head back just to relieve the pressure.

 

“If you ever – and I mean _ever_ – speak to Montparnasse or any of his men again, I'll do more than spank you,” Feuilly sounded darker now, much more serious than he usually did, “I will chain you down to _my_ bed and I will fuck you until all you can think of is me. My name will be the only poem you'll recite, my hands the only touch you remember, my voice the only thing you obey. He is poison, Jehan, _filth_. I can't have you near him again.”

 

His grip lessened, the softness returning to his voice, “He'll destroy you, sweetheart. Especially now. If he were to touch you again, I don't know if I could control myself.”

 

“Never again, I swear it!” Jehan was leaking all over the bed now, shamelessly moaning into the pillow, “Dear God above, Feul! If you don't fuck me now, I'll shake apart. I beg you!”

 

Feuilly obliged.

 

*****

 

“I've never seen you so happy,” Éponine commented, watching her best friend admire himself in her compact mirror. He had his head tilted back to expose his jugular, which had the prettiest purple ring of teeth along it. Apparently Enjolras had gotten a little rough during their last encounter and Grantaire was practically glowing with pride, he was wearing the gaping-necked shirt she'd bought for him to show it off properly. He was touching it with reverence, as if he hadn't been admiring it since he obtained it.

 

That stupid grin hadn't left his face since the rally. She heavily regretted her choice not to go and once she'd heard of the damage she'd raced over. By the time she arrived at the apartment, the two men had already declared their everlasting love (or whatever). Ever since, Grantaire had practically been floating from place to place.

 

“He's more wonderful than I could've imagined,” Grantaire declared grandly, snapping the compact shut and handing it over.

 

Éponine cocked her head to the side, tucking the make-up away, “How so? More of that magic mouth of his?”

 

“He's human,” Grantaire sighed, stretching back out onto the grass and mooning up at the sky, “He's a real person with _real_ problems. He gets tired and has headaches and grows _hair_ , for fuck's sake. I love it.”

 

“Of course he's a person,” Éponine snorted, “Did you really think him some sort of deity?”

 

Grantaire shrugged, “I think at some point...yeah, maybe.”

 

She slapped him on the shoulder, “You're insane.”

 

“No more than you,” Grantaire laughed, dropping a kiss on her cheek, “Don't be jealous.”

  
“Me?” she hiked her nose up in the air, “I've got my own life, you know. It's very fulfilling. My work takes up all my time and it leaves very little to interfere with your love life.”

 

“That's not what you said the other day.”

 

She looked at him from the corner of her eye, full lips tugging in a grin, “That was before I got laid.”

 

The friends laughed together, fingers tangling in the grass to half-heartedly toss the torn shards at one another. One the blades stopped flying, they caught their breath and looked up at the sky.

 

“Jealous,” she echoed lightly, “Over that hunk of marble? No thank you.”

 

“You know I love you,” Grantaire inched his hand over, grabbing her fingers once more, “You...who was there for me when no one else was. Enjolras could ask me to marry him, whisk me off to Dublin, and adopt a dozen kids named after my favorite artists and I would _still_ never love and appreciate him more than I do you.”

 

She gave a little _humph_ , cocking her head back even further until her hair grazed the ground.

 

“I'll never leave you,” he promised, voice a little breathless with sincerity, “Not really.”

“Of course not.”

 

But she squeezed his hand back and and he was assured.

 

*****

 

The texts came after Enjolras made a cup of tea and had settled onto the couch to watch the news before he went to bed.

 

**Come get R. He's off his face. - CM**

 

**You might want to head down to the bar. R is a little sloshed. - CF**

 

Redressed and thoroughly unrelaxed, Enjolras headed down to their usual bar and found a scene in progress. Grantaire was loudly challenging another man to an arm wrestling match, already plopped down at the man's table and rolling up his sleeves. Their were ruddy splotches high on his cheeks that tattled on his state of sobriety, and since he seemed in a competitive mood his poison tonight must have been whiskey. He always noticed a change for the worst in the younger man once he'd broken into the gold liquor.

 

“Come on!” Grantaire bellowed, “Get out from behind your mother's skirt and try to best me like a man!”

 

Enjolras was reminded vividly of the time he'd lost head temper pulling the younger man away from that couple that had been ready to ravish him on the table. There were actually some people in the bar at the moment who had been present that night and he could feel their gazes start to shift towards him. He didn't mind making a scene and he didn't care what these people thought of their relationship, nor the reputation of his group. But what he wouldn't stand for was their judging eyes upon his artist. Grantaire may have been good at making a spectacle of himself but he was still a better man than anyone else here and he didn't deserve it.

 

“Enjolras?” Grantaire called, blinking his bleary eyes toward the blonde before grinning like a loon, “And the sun has broken free of the clouds and descended on us lowly mortals!”

 

“R,” Jehan burst away from the crowd at the actual bar, rushing to the artist as he started to stand up, “Maybe you should just stop?”

 

“Move, J,” Grantaire griped, leaving the table behind and pushing the younger man aside with surprising strength. His arm wrestling match was long forgotten as he walked straight up to Enjolras. He dropped to a knee, grabbed the blonde's hand, and smacked a kiss to the back of it.

 

“My moon and stars,” he proclaimed with all the heartsickness of a teenager outside a window.

 

Oh yes, he was drunk.

 

“Grantaire.”

 

“Look at you, you're radiant,” true blue eyes grazed over him, “My soul and mind were crafted and carried through life for this one moment. To gaze upon you in this unworthy setting and bask in your radiance.”

 

“Get. Off. The floor.” Enjolras bit out through clenched teeth, “ _Now_.”

 

Grantaire rose unsteadily, smile starting to flicker as he realized the rage on the blonde's face, “Oh.”

 

“I think I'll take you home,” Enjolras took a long breath through his nose, “With me. Get your coat.”

 

Courfeyrac appeared at the artist's side, the mentioned jacket in his hands, “Sorry, R. We thought it was prudent to text him.”

 

“You _told_ on me?” Grantaire accused with a pout, slipping his arms into the sleeves with a little bit of a struggle, “That's so unfair, 'Feyrac. You told _dad_ on me. Ha!”

 

Grantaire laughed into his fist, stuttering out his images of Enjolras in an oversized suit and smoking a pipe. He was loud enough to have every one looking at him, some with pity and others with undisguised amusement. The blonde cast his eyes around, his sharp stare forcing a lot of them to turn away under its power. Jehan was watching them with neither on his face, only concern in his eyes. He mouthed the words _I'm sorry_ , an apology for letting the artist get so far into the bottle.

 

Feuilly came up behind the poet, putting an arm around his shoulders and watching with a curious crease in his brow.

 

“I think we're all finished here,” Enjolras put a hand on the artist's back, pushing him hard toward the door, “Thank you, 'Feyrac. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

 

“Alright,” the ravenette looked between the two of them, “Go easy on him, okay?”

 

***

 

The ride home was quiet on Enjolras's end. He kept his eyes on the road and his fingers curled lightly on the wheel, refusing to give in to his urge to lecture and scold the younger man. Now that they were a couple he had to remember that it wasn't his place to constantly mother Grantaire.

 

“Knew I wasn' good enough for you,” the ravenette slurred into his sleeve, “I do stupid things.”

 

Enjolras just shook his head.

 

Grantaire ducked himself down further into the seat, a hand clutching his stomach while the other fisted in his hair, “E?”

 

“Yes?”

“I'm so drunk,” his voice wavered, threatening to break, “ 'M gonna be sick.”

 

Enjolras came to a stop in the middle of the quiet side street, double-checking for lights from other cars before he put it in park. He unbuckled and reached over, running a hand over his boyfriend's flush-warm cheek.

 

“Do you think you can make it to the house?” he inquired, a small degree of exasperation almost tainting his concern.

 

Grantaire nodded.

 

“How much did you have to drink?” he brushed two knuckles over the younger man's forehead but he couldn't tell his fever, “What do you feel like?”

 

“Too much,” the ravenette confessed, “And everything's dizzy and moving. I-I can't get warm and my chest is a little tight.”

 

“Darling,” Enjolras could feel exhaustion hollowing out the space beneath his chest, making his eyes droop, “I'll call Joly when we get to the apartment. I think you might have had more than you realize.”

 

***

 

The first thing Grantaire did when they got through the door was throw off his shoes and jacket so he could run to the bathroom uninhibited, barely managing to close the door behind him before he started heaving liquor and all the food he'd eaten in the past twelve hours into the toilet. Enjolras shed his clothes a little slower, dialing Joly up on speaker phone so he could go to the bedroom and change back into something more comfortable. His heart ached with every heave he heard echoing down the hall.

 

Joly answered on the third ring, “ _For the love of the God, Enjolras. What? I have an exam tomorrow morning. You know I do!_ ”

 

“I'm sorry,” Enjolras pulled on pair of soft sweats over his shorts, letting the phone rest on the dresser, “It's Grantaire.”

 

“ _Oh_ ,” Joly's tone softened up, “ _What's wrong? Is he hurt?_ ”

 

“He drank a bit much and now he's having trouble getting warm. He's throwing up as we speak. It sounds like-”

 

“ _The start of alcohol poisoning_ ,” the younger student finished, “ _Is his breathing short?_ ”

 

“Just enough to worry me.”

 

“ _No more alcohol, at least for a few weeks_ ,” Joly prescribed, “ _Keep him hydrated. Let him sleep. If it gets any worse in the next few hours, he'll need to be taken to the hospital. Do I need to come over?_ ”

 

“I'll manage,” Enjolras picked up the phone, switching it off speaker, “I'm sorry for disturbing you. I'll take him myself if the need arises. I think he'll survive the night. I think the booze and his self-induced guilt trip is just agitating his symptoms.”

 

“ _If anyone could work their nerves up into alcohol poisoning, it'd be R._ ”

 

“Good night.”

 

“ _Yeah_.”

 

Enjolras padded to the bathroom, stopping by the kitchen to get a cold bottle of water and pain relievers. He knocked softly on the door before pushing it open. Grantaire was bent over the toilet, back arched as he started to dry heave into the porcelain bowl. A thin film of sweat had slicked over every inch of him, forcing his shirt and pants to stick to him in wet patches. Thick raven curls clung to his forehead, desperate rasps of breaths tearing in and out of his raw throat.

 

He wanted nothing more to sweep him up in his arms and kiss him, to make everything better, but the younger man had done this to himself and he wouldn't learn anything

 

“I'm so sorry,” Grantaire half sobbed, though the blonde wasn't sure if he was talking to himself or not, “I knew I should've stopped – I know better, I promise.”

 

“It's okay,” Enjolras cracked open the bottle and set it down beside him, keeping his voice as soothing as possible. The pills were put beside it. Thankfully, they stronger stuff that would help nip his hangover in the bud.

 

“I know I screw up, I'm sorry,” the ravenette didn't look up, “Don't leave. I'll st-” he heaved again, coughing for a moment before he got his voice back, “I'll stop drinking. Whatever you want.”

 

“Stop that,” the blonde put a hand on his shoulder blade, the younger man flinched and he yanked his hand away, “I'm not going to leave you over something like this, R. Honestly, you'd have to do something much more drastic than this to drive me away.”

 

Grantaire seemed to calm down a bit at this because he was still lurching, stomach cramping to dispel anything that had managed to stick around this long.

 

“Would you like me to stay in here with you?”

 

Red-rimmed eyes glanced up at him, probably spotting his exhaustion before they fell closed, “N-No.”

 

“Once you're done, you should take a cool shower and come to bed,” Enjolras rubbed his eyes briefly as he tried to swallow down his yawn, the events of the day hitting him hard enough to make him sway. He nearly fell over when the younger man grabbed a handful of his pants, fingers tight in the material.

 

“E,” the boy's lower lip trembled and it made his stomach bottom out in guilt, “I love you.”

 

The breath was punched out of him, _Oh my sweet darling, you're killing me_.

 

“I know you do,” Enjolras ruffled the other's dark tresses, using the last of his energy not to tear his own locks out in frustration. He wanted to drop to his knees and cry with him, beg the question of why Grantaire did this to himself when he knew it would always end badly. _You're killing yourself, don't you see?!_ he wanted to scream, but he didn't. He couldn't. Not tonight.

 

“Don't be long,” the blonde finally sighed, “I'm tired and I would like to sleep with you in my arms. Make sure you drink the entire bottle.”

 

Grantaire's head bobbed as he nodded but he wouldn't pick up his head. He wouldn't look at him.

 

An hour later, Enjolras was half asleep alone in his bed with the lights off. The door cracked open just enough to let a spill of moonlight in along with the always surprisingly broad shoulders and narrow hips of the man he'd been wanting to pummel and make love to for the last two hours (and to be honest, the last two years).

 

Grantaire slowly crawled into bed, damp and drowsy. Enjolras smiled in relief as he urged the artist closer, glad he wasn't going to have to go fish him out of the stall. The younger man came easy, settling with his face buried in his chest and the both of them on their sides. Once Enjolras was sure he was comfortable he dared to rest his cheek upon the dark curls he so admired. With his boyfriend snug in his arms, his mind started to drift and slow in the way he so rarely allowed. The free spirit that was so innocently snuffling into his pec was the only thing lately that seemed to be able to calm the storm of his intellect.

 

His passion given a new filter, so to speak.

 

“I'm sorry,” was whispered into the quiet room, breath floating across his skin.

 

Enjolras managed to pick his leaden hand and lay his palm along the younger man's exposed ear, thumb and forefinger tracing the sensitive rim, “Go to sleep, R.”

 

“You're not mad?”

 

Only drunk could Grantaire manage to be this pitiful and childish. If he was mad he wouldn't have gone to the bar, let alone brought him home.

 

“I'm worn out, darling,” it was barely more than a whisper, breaths coming in sluggish puffs now, “We'll have a long talk some other time about bad habits but right now I'm just too tired.”

 

“Do I...make you tired?”

  
“Sometimes,” his fingers relaxed around the boy's ear, still cupping it protectively even as the tips strayed to the line of his hair.

 

“I'm sorry I make you tired.”

 

Enjolras gave a long sigh, the words _I know_ drifting out again.

 

***

 

The next morning, Enjolras woke up alone but with the house full of wonderful smells. It rejuvenated him in a way that night of sleep had not quite done, filling him with enough energy to toss back the covers and jump out of bed. He went to the bathroom to rinse out his mouth and splash some cold water on his face, using his shirt to dry off and tossing it onto the floor afterward. Mouth watering, stomach growling, and shirtless he walked into the kitchen.

 

The table was full, almost every plate he owned full of mounds of food he was sure hadn't been in his fridge and cabinets last night. Crepes lay on a warm plate in the middle as a centerpiece, bowls of fillings circled around it. Strawberries, grapes, orange slices, and what looked like hand-rolled croissants piled up in a warmed porcelain bowl with jam and butter flanking it. There were at least three other types of pastries placed as well, each airier than the last. One set in particular was covered in white cream sauce and it looked like it would melt with a touch.

  
Grantaire whirled around from the oven, flour dusting everything from his apron to the tips of his curls. He looked a little drawn but visibly perked up at the sight of the orator. His smile rivaled the sun coming in through the window.

 

“You're up!” Grantaire turned back to the skillet, “I'm just finishing up some ham omelets. Get a plate and I'll pour you some coffee.”

 

“Did you go to the market?” Enjolras stared dumbfounded at the scene that was his dining table, “It all looks so...extraordinarily wonderful.”

 

“I knew how tired you were and I'm sure you didn't have a full supper yesterday,” Grantaire sounded dangerously close to scolding as he perfectly plated the folded eggs, “I thought it'd be nice to start today with a full stomach. You have work, don't you?”

 

“I do,” Enjolras came up behind him, spotting an empty sink where a few dishes had been, “Did you clean? Darling, you didn't need to do any of that.”

 

“Mmm,” Grantaire hummed as the blonde's arms curled around his waist, one-night-stubble resting in the crook of his neck, “I wanted to.”

 

“You can be divine, you know that?” Enjolras murmured, breathing in the scent of warm bread and the boy's natural musk. Grantaire hadn't showered, he could tell. He smelled like him, from his sheets and his own touch. It was nice.

 

“Sit. Eat.” Grantaire commanded, patting the man's laced hands.

 

“Eat with me,” Enjolras complained good-naturedly.

 

“I will in a moment, let me get coffee,” the artist craned his neck and they met in a shallow kiss, “Go! Before everything gets cold and I force you to remake it.”

 

“You don't want my baking, trust me,” but Enjolras let him go and grabbed a plate from the cabinet.

 

They both ended up taking all the plates into the living room to turn on the news and eat straight from the serving dishes. Through mouthfuls of food they discussed the events they saw, debating in the natural rhythm they'd had for years. They talked about Jehan and Feuilly's new relationship, the shaky development between Enjolras right and left hands, and the finals they had looming over them.

 

“I finished a commission the other day. I made enough to eat for three weeks!”

 

“There's this new junior partner at work who thinks he can take my job. His computer may or may not have been exposed to a magnet that may or may not have wiped his entire portfolio. It took Bossuet three days to find one strong enough to erase a hard drive in one go.”

 

The discussed a number of things and Enjolras remembered just why he'd fallen in love with the drunkard of a cynic.

 

There was no need for them to argue about something they already knew the answer to

 

*****

 

One of their acquaintances threw a house party, not unlike the one Lesgle had held all those weeks ago. Those of the ABC who could make it had only agreed after Sam, their young first-year host, had promised that Montparnasse and his gang wouldn't be coming. The home was large, at least three floors, and was filled to the brim with laughter.

 

Finals were creeping up fast and they needed a valve-release.

 

Enjolras listened to Courfeyrac and another senior argue ethical points on religious rights in question of seemingly barbaric practices. He wanted to join in but his friend was articulating all his points for him. It was nice to sit back and just listen for a while. Combeferre was throwing in his two cents once and a while but overall he seemed content to watch his roommate as well. Bahorel was on the far end end of the couch, right beside Enjolras's own seat, but he was bleary-eyed and the words seemed to pass right over him.

 

Grantaire snuck up on the group, trying not to interrupt as he sought a seat for himself. He grabbed a fold-out chair and pulled it up to the circle but he didn't get a chance to use it when a strong, tan arm caught him around the waist.

 

“There you are, darling,” Enjolras tugged him down with all the grace of his demi-god status, planting a kiss on his surprised mouth, “Did you wear Lesgle out?”

 

“He couldn't keep up,” Grantaire settled himself down as comfortably as he could, “He's a terrible dance partner.”

 

“Here, you'll need this,” Bahorel opened a beer with an audible _crack_ , handing it to the artist, “This discussion is as dry as the grave, R. Drink up or choke.”

 

“Um,” Grantaire looked down at the beer for a long second before he sat it on the table, readjusting himself to be comfortable on the blonde's lap once more, “Thanks, but I've had my fill. Two's enough to quench my thirst tonight.”

 

Enjolras cupped his cheek, bringing him in for a slow kiss that quickly grew heated. He could feel their friends looking but he didn't care, not when his Apollo was nibbling on his lower lip like it was fruit. A whine was pulled from his throat when a broad hand ran over the side of his thigh, sparks of pleasure dancing just beneath his skin. When they managed to break apart, the whole group was staring. Grantaire squirmed uncomfortably, a blush working its way up his neck and past his cheeks. But Enjolras only had eyes for him, unaware or uncaring of the others as he kept his fingers dangerously close to the artist's ass.

 

“Do you want to head home?” Enjolras inquired, still staring with enough blatant adoration to make him breathless.

 

“Yeah.”

 

***

 

They got to the car but Enjolras seemed to have other plans, sure hands pushing him into the back seat instead of the passenger side.

 

“What's going on?” Grantaire frowned, watching the blonde slide in with him before shutting the door. He released an unmanly yelp as he was yanked onto the man's lap, the top of his curls almost brushing the ceiling. His lips were taken, all protests dying off as Enjolras ran his hands up the back of his shirt. It was fast but it was intoxicating, and he couldn't help but respond. It was like the blonde was possessed, filled with ancestral fire or something else as beautiful.

 

Enjolras started unbuttoning his pants and he could've sworn he was going to pass out, “Enj?”

 

“I'm so proud of you,” a warm, thick thumb brushed just under the waistband of his underwear.

  
“For what?” he gasped, rocking up without hesitation.

 

“For choosing not to drink,” his cock strained against the material, already leaking at the promise of more. Enjolras's hand closed over the hard flesh and he moaned, kissing the blonde hard as he tried not to hump him like a dog. He didn't know how much he was going to get out here, in public, in a car – but whatever he was willing to do, he wanted it.

 

“It was one drink,” Grantaire protested, feeling the bulge of the other's arousal.

 

“It's a good start,” Enjolras flipped him over carefully, making sure to cradle his back so he didn't end up on the floor. Grantaire smiled as he was spread out on the seat, the older boy on his knees between his legs.

 

“Let me show you how proud I am,” Enjolras breathed, grabbing the hem of the artist's pants and tugging them down with intent.

 

Grantaire exhaled thickly, like he'd been jabbed in the stomach, “Out here? Anyone could walk by?”

 

“Let them watch,” the blonde leaned down, pushing up the boy's shirt to kiss at the quivering curve of his stomach, “No one gets you but me so the closest they'll have is a glimpse of you through a tinted window.”

 

Grantaire grinned to himself, eyes falling shut.

 

 _No one else_...that sounded nice.

* * *

**BTW: That quote Jehan said was from The Great Gatsby.**

**Did you like it? I actually liked what I wrote this time so I hope you guys did to. Review? Pretty please?**

**[Gif set](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/68341489576/grantaires-head-thumped-against-the-wall-eyes)! And the [other one](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/68344789177/do-i-make-you-tired-sometimes-his-fingers)**

 

 


	22. Official Hiatus and Reasons

My laptop stopped. It just -  _stopped_. I lost the three half-constructed chapters I had, and that was quite a few scenes. My heart is breaking right now. I'm torn between being angry and depressed, it's an awful feeling. I didn't back it up like I should have and I feel that I've let you readers down. But most importantly, I've let myself down. Those of you who have been reading my fics for the past few years may or may not remember the last time I lost all my fics - I had to abandon almost a half dozen works that will go unfinished becaues their outlines were lost. If I could recreate anything, I would, but I actually have nothing to go on. Once I outline a scene I push it out of my mind until I go to actually write it.

NOW - there is a 50/50 shot on this. I could be able to recover everything. If that's so, I can pull this fic off by the end of the year. Everything will be fine and rainbows and we'll get a well rounded ending. IF NOT - I don't know if I'll have the will to finish. I wrote out a lot of precious memories and loose-end tying. 'Feyrac and 'Ferre fixed things up and I'm so sad I lost everything I wrote out of them. All I have is a Feuilly/Jehan scene written out in a notebook. I could wrap it up with the promised sex scene and my nice epilogue but none of it will mean nearly as much because I've lost all the good filler bits.

In the down time between getting my computer assessed and recovering/not recovering my files, I'll be writing this random Breaking Bad ficlet I started a while ago (since I lost everything for my WTNV fic series too). If all is lost, I'm probably in all honesty going to go to the next project I had planned after this fic (which is my Walking Dead/Boondock Saints crossover, "Saints and Walkers", with Daryl/Connor and Murphy/Glenn). I'll probably start posting that on AO3 and get started on rewriting season 2. I KNOW IT'S SHITTY - but it physically hurts to lose about fifty pages of fanfic and it kind of saps my energy for that couple. It's why I stopped writing Wrestling fics.

As for the state of "What Will I Become?" I honestly have no idea. I don't know if I had anything written out for that or not. That is kind of hanging in the wind.

So I'm really sorry if you're upset. I'm upset too, I promise. I will try to hold onto my fanfic files more tightly in the future. This laptop failure came with no warning, I've only had it a few weeks. I really hope to see you guys again with future chapters and if not - I hope we meet again in another fandom. I love you all so very, very much. You're all so lovely and you really make my day.

Love and Rockets,

Emono 

 


	23. Back - With A Vengeance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What else did you expect from Enjolras and Grantaire once they got together?

**We're back! So I got my computer back with FANTASTIC results. I got every story file back. Thank goodness, right? So here is this *shoves chapter at you eagerly* I hope you like it. I loved reading it over and getting back into the story. I would honestly work on this fic for the next three days without stop but I have a paper to write, accounting to do, and work to...er, work. But I will be working very diligently on this fic. It needs to be complete. It's like an itch. I love it so much though, and I missed it terribly. More than I realized.**

**If you're here - thank you for sticking around. Thank you for coming back. Thank you for getting over author problems for the sake of the fic. You've all been lovely and supportive.**

* * *

 

When the ABC had first moved their budding group to the attic of Les Amis, Fantine had given them everything they could ask for. They were still a growing business back then and a solid pack of boys feeding all their money into the place and spreading the name was just what they'd needed. Valjean and his wife had almost instantly become the lost parent figures most of the boys had been looking for, their own fathers and mothers too busy or too wrapped up in their own lives to care what their sons were doing.

 

They tried to bring their own things up, Fantine practically supplied them over night. Books shelves, paper, pens, maps, food, and one unique item they'd found many a use for. A magnetic chalkboard that took up a good chunk of the side wall. Though they mostly used it for brainstorming ideas or forging out Sherlock Holmes style links between pictures, they'd gotten rather creative with it. It started with a gift from Valjean, a magnet poem kit with about fifty random words on small squares of material that stuck to the board. Every Christmas since he'd given them an expansion set, creating quite the impressive display. The group tried their hands at creating little lyrics and the sets ranged from beautiful works of art to expressions of mental illness.

 

Enjolras opened the attic door with his hip, balancing a plate of hot breakfast rolls in one hand and a carrying rack of coffee in the other. His backpack (an old thing from his family camping trips) nearly threw off his weight enough to knock him over but he managed to hold steady. The morning meeting was due to start in about an hour and he wanted everything to be ready to go by then. He set their food on the table and started unpacking the bag, laying out the flyers and contact sheets in careful piles. He'd missed the last meeting due to work and he had a list of questions for Combeferre and Courfeyrac – that is, if they could get their heads out of each other’s asses long enough to pay attention. They seemed to be wrapped up in one another lately.

 

He'd found a quote picture on the internet last night and it seemed perfect to put up on the board. He grabbed a stick of pastel red chalk and started writing it out within an empty corner, hoping the boys would take it to heart.

 

_Apologizing: Does not always mean that you are wrong and the other person is right. It just means that you value your relationship more than your ego._

 

Enjolras dusted the chalk off on his pants, letting the stick rest back in the holder. He took another look along the board, spotting some of the poetry the others had put together with little chalk initials beside them to show off the author.

 

_Summer_

_is_

_between_

_trick_

_weather_

_and_

_sweet_

_dream_

_-JP_

 

And beside it.

 

_Celebrate_

_the_

_ghosts_

_of_

_the_

_morning_

_-LB_

 

They were all rather quaint but there was one that caught his eye. It was made up of some of the thicker, one-letter tiles. It was his own name placed vertically, and on the last 'a' there was a horizontal lace of the name _Grantaire._ It was a simple cross, made with casual intent, with a little winky face drawn at the side. He ran a single finger along where the words intersected, a wide smile starting to creep across his face. After a minute he took a picture and sent it to his boyfriend, tapping out a brief message.

 

**I like how our names look together - E**

 

He was straightening up the tiles when his phone chimed, buzzing in his hands as he got a response.

 

**I do too - R**

 

He was wrapped up in smiling down at the screen, so much so that he didn't hear someone come in until they cleared their throat. He turned, finding one of his oldest friends standing in the doorway. Marius had his arms crossed over his chest, a toothy grin on his face.

 

“You're glowing,” the ginger pointed out.

 

“Shut up,” Enjolras grumbled, striding quickly to the desk.

 

“You're in love!”

 

“Marius! For goodness sake!”

 

“It's like you’re pregnant,” Marius grabbed a pastry and tore out a flaky bite, “I've never seen you more radiant, Enjolras. It suits you.”

 

*****

 

Enjolras's tablet made the perfect little TV for when they were at the artist's loft. Anchors chattered about the current events in America while the two men made out like schoolboys on the couch. Tan hands were roaming under a paint splotched t-shirt, fingertips mapping every rib and scar as his mouth drank the boy up. Grantaire gave as good as he got, ruffling up golden hair as his own digits traced soft lines along the older man's neck.

 

They'd been slowly making out for as long as they could remember, murmuring passionate words between kisses as they got dizzy off their lust. Years of dancing around one another had left them with an undeniable hunger that was desperate to be sated.

 

“God, you're beautiful,” Enjolras gasped as they broke off, the other boy's usually petal pink mouth now swollen and red as wine.

 

“God doesn't care how pretty you think I am,” Grantaire teased lightly, ass clenching as he felt the tell-tale bulge in the man's expensive khakis, “Since he can't see me.”

 

“Your lack of faith in God is as fascinating as it is disconcerting,” but it was said with nothing but love.

 

“My faith is in a more trustworthy god.”

 

Enjolras started nibbling little marks into his neck, thumb tracing the round edge of his pants button, “Shall I earn that trust?”

 

“I have a better idea,” Grantaire pinned the blonde to the back of the couch, grinning as his hands started working on his belt, “How about you let me worship at your temple for a while? I have an _offering_ to give.”

 

“You are positively profane. You must think you're so charming with your sacrilege,” Enjolras moaned, the other boy's hand pressing down on the swell of his clothed cock, “What am I to do with you?”

 

“I can think of something,” he hummed, “Maybe-”

 

There was a knock on the door, heavier than usual. Like a meaty fist was pounding on it. Grantaire bit back an angry shout and managed to pry himself off the clutching god reclining so eagerly on his couch.

 

“Don't,” Enjolras begged, sitting up to drop little kisses from where the artist's shirt had ridden up, “Just ignore it.”

 

“It could be one of our friends,” the feather-light touches made him gasp, “One moment, Apollo, that's all I ask.”

 

“Stay,” it was a close to a command.

 

Grantaire ducked down to give him another long, wet kiss, “You can have me kneel and beg in a second. Let me see what they want.”

 

Enjolras's little sounds of protest fueled him all the way to the door, hitting his system like a shot of espresso. He was almost giggling as he unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open a bit, the chain Feuilly had attached to the wall rattling before pulling taunt to keep it locked. For a split second he thought it was Courfeyrac and he started to greet him, but that delusion didn't last long.

 

Grantaire tried to shut the door but a heavy forearm smacked onto the wood, testing the strength of the chain, “Bastard!”

 

“Come now, little brother,” those dull brown eyes were blown out, like he'd just shot up, “Let me in. We ended so badly last time. I want to make it up to you.”

 

“Not now, Delrick,” Grantaire tried to lower his voice, praying his companion didn't hear. A thick hand shot through the gap in the door and grabbed the front of his shirt, memories of their last encounter bubbling to the surface. Phantom aches pulsed through his sides and into his bones, reminding him of just what his brother could do to him. He usually wasn't scared of his brother's fists but this time they bled into that of Gueulemer, simple punches becoming greedy fingers and his brother's sharp pants for breath transforming into the shudder clicks of cameras.

 

Grantaire wasn't sure what kind of sound came from his throat but it was desperate enough to scare himself, his brother's knuckles digging into the hollow of his throat.

 

A booted foot shot out and struck the door, slamming it hard into Delrick's forearm. The older man let go as he cried out, drawing his arm back out to clutch at it and curse. Enjolras shut the door only long enough to touch Grantaire's chin reassuringly, then he slipped the chain out of its fastening and pulled the door wide open.

 

Delrick stared at the two of them, a muscle in his face twitching when he realized just who was in front of him. There was an angry line across his forearm but he quickly forgot about it.

 

“Enjolras,” he sounded out the name, lingering over the syllables in a way that reminded Enjolras that his lover and this man were brothers. They seemed to savor his name like fine wine, though for two different reasons.

 

“The golden boy himself,” Delrick's smirk was downright nasty, “Oh, if your father could see you now. Shacking up with our little black sheep. Don't you two look cozy?”

 

Grantaire struggled to fix his shirt but the blonde didn't seem to care, chin held high and his hair a veritable mess. The younger man took a few hesitant steps back, the fire in his leader's eyes all the convincing he needed to know he was in good hands.

 

“I heard what you did,” Delrick pointed out, “I know it was you, even if you've done your best to convince everyone else otherwise. How far do you really think you'll get with that violent streak?”

 

“As far as I need to,” Enjolras replied coolly, “Farther than you.”

 

“Oh,” the man pursed his lips, “That _burns_.”

 

“You have some nerve to show your face around here again,” the blonde stated boldly, “Especially in front of me.”

 

“Is that so?” Delrick stepped closer in a challenge, carrying his weight just as powerfully even under the influence of whatever he'd plunged into his body.

 

“It is.” He didn't give the other the satisfaction of tipping up his head to look at him, “If I had been here when you put your hands on him, I would've-”

 

Delrick swung suddenly, fist catching him in the swell of his cheek in a sucker punch. The blonde whipped to the side and nearly stumbled, but he didn't fall. Grantaire's hands shot up to his mouth, a protest escaping his lips before he could swallow it down. The attack was brutal and it left his older brother with a satisfied smirk. Enjolras slowly straightened, running his tongue over his teeth in a slow slide that was tinged with pink.

 

“You're nothing like they said,” Delrick chuckled lowly, rubbing a clumsy hand over his knuckles, “Just another guy to fall prey to my little slut of a brother. I'd get tested if I were you, pretty boy, because this brat goes through a dozen a night.”

 

Grantaire barely managed to keep his head from dropping at the surge of shame those words caused. “Shut up, Delrick.”

 

“You act as if I don't speak the truth!” his brother puffed, getting closer to the orator, “Listen up, _En-jol-ras_. I don't care who you think you are, but-”

 

Enjolras struck like lightening, smacking a solid open palm across the man's jaw before grabbing him by the neck and driving his knee into his stomach. Delrick made a sound like he was going to throw up. With every ounce of grace the older lacked, Enjolras dragged him by the neck out the door and tossed him into the hallway. His elbow plunged a hole into the plaster and his head bounced off the floor.

 

“I...” Grantaire bit down on the bend of his knuckle, unsure if he wanted to stop all of this or not.

 

“No, Delrick, _you_ listen,” Enjolras stepped over the older man, curling his fingers within the expensive shirt cuff, “This was a warning.”

 

He delivered a swift punch that knocked the man's head back, forcing a groan out of his chest.

 

“And so was that,” he pulled up a bit, staring him right in the eyes, “If you touch Grantaire again, I will _skin_ you. Do you understand me, Delrick? You're done here.”

 

Enjolras released the older man and walked back inside, shutting the door and bolting it behind him. He leaned against the door with his head slightly cocked to the side, listening carefully for any signs at the older man was going to try and do anything. After a few minutes they both heard him shouting and storming out. The slam of the door to the building sent tremors through the floor.

 

“You're a brute,” Grantaire finally said after a dozen rapid beats of his own heart.

 

Enjolras looked at him without an ounce of regret on his face, cheek already swelling and stained red.

 

“I can't believe what I saw,” he repeated, approaching the blonde with a heady curl of arousal swimming through his belly, “That display was beastly at best. I will tell you right now, Enjolras, I have no need for your animalistic display of alpha male dominance. I can take care of myself! I'm not a damsel in distress to fulfill your knight-in-shining-armor complex!”

 

Enjolras didn't flinch as the younger man grabbed a fistful of his hair, crowding into his personal space, “Did I disgust you?”

 

“On the contrary,” his irate tone dialed down to a sultry purr as he pressed up against the long line of his body, “I've never wanted you more.”

 

“Who's complex are you feeding, exactly?” Enjolras jested in relief, taking a brief kiss, “And I wasn't trying to emasculate you. I was simply defending your honor.”

 

“I'd rather you sully it.”

 

The blonde gave a visible shiver, “Grantaire...”  


Roughly an hour later, they were back on the couch with a new air of satisfaction around them and both their pants puddled on the floor. They watched the stream of news with half-lidded eyes and soft smiles, content even as Enjolras held an ice pack to the side of his face.

 

Grantaire stretched and flexed his back out before dropping his head down into his boyfriend's lap, curling up like a content cat. He licked at his lips, grinning when he caught a lingering taste of the other man's pleasure.

 

“No one's ever managed to drive him off before,” he confessed quietly.

 

“I won't let him near you again, if I can,” Enjolras replied honestly, stretching his jaw briefly before placing the ice pack back on it, “I think I'll stay the night, though, if you don't mind. Just in case he comes back.”

 

Grantaire thought of a hundred seductive things he could've said but all that came out of him was a sweet _thanks_ before settling in closer for a short nap.

 

*****

 

Courfeyrac knocked shoulders with his roommate as he was heading inside the apartment, the older man out. Combeferre mumbled an apology and fixed his glasses a little firmer on his face.

 

“You look nice,” Courfeyrac blurted out, looking him over. A tight fitted vest over a white dress shirt, no suit coat but his pants were perfectly pressed. Hair brushed and styled, a tie snug at his throat and delving into the breast of his clothes. In all truth, he looked handsome.

 

“You look like you're going to go hang off someone's arm all night,” the younger man jabbed playfully, “Where are you off to?”

 

“I have a meeting with a few friends,” Combeferre slipped by him, “No one you know. I'll be home late, I'll try not to wake you.”  


“ 'Ferre?”  


The blonde stopped but didn't turn around.

 

Courfeyrac drew back in to himself, slumping in the doorway, “Nevermind. Have fun.”

 

Combeferre gave a nod without facing him and continued on, tugging his keys out of his pocket and heading toward his car.

 

And just like that, he was left standing like an idiot outside an apartment he shared with a man he probably loved as more than a brother.

 

***

 

Combeferre sat in the car a few minutes longer than necessary, only relaxing when his roommate disappeared into the house. He slumped against the steering wheel, resting his forehead on the rounded edge. His chest was heavy and each breath felt like taking in liquid lead.

 

Living like this – ignoring Courfeyrac, pretending like he didn't care – was killing him.

 

*****

 

Grantaire felt the sunlight like a tickle on his nose. The cool sheets beneath his sprawled limbs, the soft call of his name. It was all enough to wake the sleeping man. Enjolras's room was awash in early light, its master standing beside the bed and staring down at him. He was in his dress slacks and an undershirt, the start of one of his business suits.

 

“Yes?” he croaked, stretching the sleep out of his body.

 

Enjolras's smile was gentle, “I can't sleep. I'm going into work early. I just wanted to make sure you didn't think I snuck off on you.”

 

“I'm in your apartment,” Grantaire gave a throaty chuckle, “And don't you have to engage in sex to have a morning after?”

 

“Aren't you clever?” the blonde ran a thumb over the other's cheek, dragging it through morning stubble, “I like the sight of you in my bed. I do admit it stirs something rather primal in me to see you so comfortable here.”

 

“Does it, now?” Grantaire grinned so hard his cheeks threatened to crack, “That's nice to hear.”

 

“You always bring out my worst instincts,” Enjolras chided, but there was mirth behind it.

 

“Thanks,” he wrinkled up his nose in delight, “That is the greatest compliment I believe you've ever paid me.”

 

Enjolras dropped his hand down to the boy's bare chest, letting just his fingertips touch the pale skin and spatter of dark hair. Grantaire's own hand came up and laid upon the back of is fingers, following the touch as it slowly ran the length of his torso. Fine nails just barely scraped the edge of his boxers. It sent a small shiver through him and forced his skin to prickle, but he loved it.

 

“You're lovely,” Enjolras confessed like a sin.

 

“You're ethereal,” he replied in much the same tone.

 

The blonde flicked his stomach, making the younger man jolt. “You're an idiot.”

 

“And so are you!” he declared with an impish laugh, “Look who you ended up with.”

 

“A sensitive artist who adores me,” Enjolras clasped their hands for just a little while, squeezing those skilled fingers, “I'll keep him.”

 

“You better,” he glanced down at the older man's pants, “I thought you were going to wear the gray suit?”

 

“It didn't seem strong enough,” Enjolras admitted.

 

It wasn't that he doubted his love's tastes, but he knew he was hopeless with choices when his head was all clouded up with worry.

 

“And what vest? What tie?”

 

Enjolras rolled his eyes, “R, _please_. I can dress myself.”

 

“Gun metal vest, black tie with pinstripes,” Grantaire yawned, eyes falling closed, “Not the thick striped one, the subtle one with silver.”

 

“That grey thing? I'm not wearing that.”

 

The artist snuffed, “If you want powerful and don't want to look like a waiter, go with the gun metal.”

 

Blue eyes rolled in exasperation, “Go back to bed.”

 

Enjolras dropped his hands and walked out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. Grantaire teased himself with the idea of going back to sleep. Despite the siren song of the bedding and the warmth it gave, he knew he wouldn't be getting back to his dreams any time soon. He could hear his boyfriend getting ready, the closet in the hall opening and shutting as he most likely retrieved the rest of his attire. So he gave one last long stretch before getting up, bare feet padding lightly across the floor. When he opened the door he spotted the blonde at the held of the hall next to the bathroom, a well-trimmed black dress shirt and (low and behold) the tight gun metal vest hugging his chest now. He looked beautiful and fierce, the dangerous edge he usually hid was fully on display. Enjolras seemed to be struggling in fixing his tie, a scowl marring his face as he looked into the mirror hanging off the back of the closet door.

 

Grantaire crept up behind him and stuffed his hands into his boyfriend's pockets, dragging him into his chest so he could rest his chin on his broad shoulder, “Hello, gorgeous.”

 

Enjolras glared at him in their reflections but the corners of his mouth twitched up.

 

“That meeting is today, isn't it?” the artist pursued, “The one you've been worried about?”

 

His love had been muttering about a looming threat for the past few days, he'd been restless. Even a drawn out orgasm and hot tea hadn't put him at ease enough to sleep through the night.

 

“I'll be presenting in front of a few department heads,” Enjolras nodded tightly, fingers still fumbling on the material, “It isn't as huge as I made it out to be.”

 

“You're lying. You told me just the other night it decided your job placement for the next year,” Grantaire breathed in the hot smell of cinnamon that was buried under his love's overpriced cologne, “And you're going to do well. You always do. You're a natural talker, Apollo, you'll have them eating out of your hand before the first slide's over. You'll walk out of there today with three new admirers, at least.”

 

“I'm not as charming as everyone thinks I am.” Tie now straight, Enjolras dropped his hands to cover the younger man's hands over his own pockets. “That's you. You have a silver tongue when you want to. You bat your eyes while you insult them and suddenly they're in love with you.”

 

“Don't sell yourself short,” Grantaire tisked, digging his chin into the muscle of his shoulder, “You're captivating. You have a natural gravity that we all fall into when you talk long enough.”

 

It was nothing he hadn't heard before but this time it felt like it meant more, “Do I?”

 

“Insanely so,” they met eyes in the mirror, “You really didn't sleep at all, did you?”

 

“I watched you sleep for a little while before I started reading over the project again,” his brow knitted, “Is that strange?”

 

“No,” Grantaire pulled his hands out of the man's pockets, “Hold still for me.”

 

Enjolras let him lay those same hands over his eyes, “R?”

 

“Take a breath.”

 

The law student obeyed, almost-silver vest straining beautifully with the motion.

 

“You'll be fine,” Grantaire stated firmly once he was sure the man was relaxing, like a bird with its cage covered, “Do you even know who you are?”

 

“R,” was sighed out in mild annoyance, Enjolras's hands coming up to grab his wrists but didn't pull him away.

 

“You're a siren. An orator. The voice of the people. An angel of justice if I've ever seen one,” he brushed his lips over the blonde's ear, pushing his point in, “You're one of the single greatest minds I've ever known and I've been in love with you since before I can remember. These men hold nothing over you.”

 

He lowered his hands, smiling at the blinking blue eyes he exposed, “They only have as much power over you as you let them have.”

 

“You are...” Enjolras turned around, fluttering a soft kiss over his mouth, “Thank you.”

 

Grantaire took down the suit coat hanging on the bathroom door, helping the older man slip it on. He watched him finally straighten his tie and slip it beneath his vest, completely the look. They parted ways briefly, the younger slumping into the kitchen while the older got his shoes out of the closet and sat down on the couch to put them on.

 

In silent clockwork, they met at the door after just a few minutes.

 

“Thanks,” Enjolras pecked him on the cheek as he accepted a silver thermos full of coffee, “Wish me luck.”

 

“Give them hell, pretty boy.”

 

*****

 

Lesgle plucked the disposable thermometer out of Joly's mouth and peered closely at the screen.

 

“Ninety-nine,” he announced before tossing it into the trash can beside their seats. They were downstairs in Fantine's cafe, the sign on the door reading 'Closed' though they were still all gathered there. The meeting had blown up and Valjean had loudly decided it was time to to an immediate (if not permanent) break for sweet coffee and some biscuits. Combeferre had left in a huff and Marius had decided he needed to sleep more than he needed to resolve the issues of the night. Eponine had ducked out the moment she heard raised voices and Bahorel had offered her a ride home, though they all knew he wouldn't get anymore than a sincere thanks before the door was shut in his face.

 

“That can't be right,” Joly sulked, cheek pressed into his fist, “I feel like I'm being smothered. It has to be a fever.”

 

“What else is wrong?” Lesgle prodded gently, wiping his fingers on a napkin before picking his pastry apart with little pinches.

 

“School is just too much,” Joly complained lowly, keeping his voice down so Courfeyrac (who was chatting very nicely with Cossette at the front counter) didn't catch wind and report his distress to his roommate, “I'm worn out. Spread too thin. And I have no more useful advice to give.”

 

Lesgle couldn't help but let loose a few ill-restrained chuckles, head titling back so he caught sight of the window. Outside night had fallen but the lights above the cafe illuminated the sidewalk. Feuilly and Jehan were smoking outside; they stood so close together that they easily passed a single cigarette back and forth, the faint puffs of their breath revealing their conversation. They had been carefully apart all evening and every evening before it, almost visibly counting out three feet between them at all times. Now, with an illusion of privacy, they nearly had their heads together.

 

“Do you think we should tell them that we know about their relationship?” Lesgle inquired lightly.

 

“No,” Joly sighed out the word with a faint smile, “Give them a while longer. Let them enjoy their forbidden tryst while it lasts. Combeferre will surely say something once it moves from cute to embarrassing.”

 

“Hey,” the broader boy elbowed his friend in the side reassuringly, “Even if you fail every class this year, at least you can say you've accomplished the greatest thing anyone has ever seen.”

 

“And what is that exactly?”

 

“Getting dumb and dumber to realize they love each other.”

 

As if on queue, two raised voices could be heard from the attic. Like thunder they were, shaking down among their sill human heads with no head to the discomfort they caused.

 

“For all you talk of abhorring violence, your view are getting a little too 'hands-on' for my taste!”

 

“That's not hard, considering your taste is nothing more than flowery speeches of peace!”

 

“I believe we can achieve a world of peace!”

 

“Then you are sorely delusional!”

 

“Aren't they darling?” Lesgle sighed merrily, putting a flat hand to his ear, “I think I hear wedding bells.”

 

“They've been fighting all evening,” Joly groaned, dropping his face into his palm, “I think my blood pressure's doubled since I arrived. They're probably the cause of my fever.”

 

“I'm starting to think you're reverting, o' fearless leader,” Grantaire came stomping down the steps, bag over his shoulder as he pulled a knit cap over his lengthening curls, “The next thing we know you'll be giving free passes to the _bourgeoisie_ and telling us that they aren't so bad.”

 

“Reverting?!” Enjolras was shouting down the staircase now, “I've never agreed with the morals of-”

 

“Oh, I'm sure!” Grantaire snorted, stomping toward the door, “Don't trip over your flower crown on the way out!”

 

“You little brat!” the blonde came like a storm from the attic, red in the face, “Violence is no way to solve anything!”

 

“It's the _only_ way to solve anything,” Grantaire shot back childishly, “You need _blood_ to get a reaction from the people and I'm the only one with the balls to say it!”

 

“Guys-” Courfeyrac tried to step in but Cossette grabbed his sleeve, shaking her head.

 

“Well _thank God_ you're not in charge!” Enjolras snarled, “If it were up to people like you, we'd still be selling pastries to hangings. You'd rather we tear down the political office buildings and stick a guillotine on every corner!”

 

“If it works!” Grantaire spat hotly, almost getting the blonde to recoil.

 

“That's barbaric!”

 

“It's productive!”

 

“This is precious,” Lesgle whispered in their medic's ear, “I didn't think they'd work out, but this is nothing short of riveting.”

 

“Shall we just start stringing people up by their toes?” Enjolras offered sarcastically, sweeping his arm out in a grand gesture, “Maybe I'll get you some chains for Christmas. You can just start filing people out of the prison to hang them from lamp posts?”

 

“Why do you always do this?” the ravenette snatched a bagel off the table, snarling lowly, “I have a genuine opinion and you drive it all the way to nonsense! You've got to be more aggressive or no one's ever going to listen! Those are _facts_.”

 

“You're such a _child_ , Grantaire,” the older man scoffed hard, “Kicking and screaming does nothing for the cause, I-”

 

Enjolras dodged the flying pastry, releasing a high noise of protest, “Oh! How dare-”

 

Another skimmed off the top of his head, “Grantaire!”

 

“How's that for childish?” the younger snubbed, throwing up two fingers in a rude display.

 

Enjolras grabbed a heavy muffin off the counter, aiming carefully before throwing it like a baseball. It caught the ravenette in the shoulder, forcing a startled yelp out of him. When faced with the boy's startled expression, he could only give a little snuff of triumph.

 

“That hurt, asshole!”

 

“I was only returning fire,” he pointed out.

 

“You enjoy playing 'Follow the Leader' with these fools, I'm going home,” Grantaire turned on his heels, looking for all the world like a boy throwing a tantrum. He got to the door and pulled it open, letting in a draft of cold air.

 

Enjolras suddenly looked down at his watch, “I'm picking you up at seven tomorrow.”  


“Can't we do eight?” When the ravenette turned around it was with an entirely new expression and tone, one of a boyfriend rather than a man with a different view who'd been offended. “I really think my class is going to run long and she frowns on ducking out.”

 

“I'll stop by the class and give an excuse for you, how about that?”

 

The artist bit the side of his lip in idle thought. “It better be a good one.”

 

“I'll figure out something,” Enjolras waved through the air, a softer gesture than his previous, “The reservations are at seven thirty and I'd rather not lose our table.”

 

“Ugh, _table_ ,” Grantaire griped, resting against the door now, “How nice do I have to dress?”

 

“No paint stains,” the blonde brushed the crumbs off his hands, “Your best casual will be fine, I promise you.”

 

“Alright, seven,” he shot the older man a wink, “Text me.”

 

And then he was gone into the night. Enjolras headed back upstairs without another word, looking just as content as the artist had.

 

Lesgle laughed gaily, “See? Like I said: Perfect.”

 

“They're going to kill each other.”

 

“I didn't say they wouldn't.”

 

***

 

He would never get used to this.

 

Enjolras may have put his weight on his knees in an effort not to crush him but he was still heavy enough to hold him down. Their skin slid so deliciously. The rasp of their legs, the burn of stubble, the strength of fingers and arms...it all made him dizzy. Enjolras was more tactile in bed than he would've ever hoped for. Though Grantaire considered himself a master and appreciator of the human body, skilled in the ways of worship at Apollo's most sacred temple, Enjolras was thorough enough to make him jealous. What skill he'd have at sketching if he put the time into it.

 

Enjolras took a heavy breath against his pulse point, the tan hand beside dark tresses curling tightly before another thrust sent heat up his spine.

 

It had taken them quite a few tries to get this nice, smooth rhythm going. Grantaire could still vividly recall the first time they'd fallen into the sheets with nothing but nervous energy and a beer too many in their stomachs. Enjolras had taken a few male lovers and the artist was no stranger to the act, but together they had been much too worried about screwing it up to actually get it right. After a banged head on the headboard and a swift (but accidental) elbow to the gut, they had just broken down into laughter and called it a night. In all honesty they had both been too embarrassed to try again.

 

It had been almost three months of them trying to feel each other out and the past two weeks of sex had turned into something fantastic. The first stumbling and fumblings had been adorable and heart-pounding, but now their appetites had been wetted for the kind of lovemaking that came from familiarity and long overdo hunger.

 

All other partners faded into the back of their minds had they feasted on each other's mouths and sated their lust with every grind and slide of fingertips.

 

As nicely as Enjolras's cock fit between his lips and across his tongue, it felt even better deep within him. Even through the condom he could feel a molten heat that made him shiver. Grantaire made a load of embarrassingly soft moans and cries, enjoying himself more than he cared about being composed. Even with sweat on his brow and the lack of clothes, Enjolras looked as cool as he did speaking in front of people. Every groan that fell from that full mouth was like the end of a bulleted point, an exclamation that made a crowd go quiet. Here in bed it just made Grantaire gasp and try to get closer.

 

It was a relief to know that one of them had their shit together.

 

They came just a handful of thrusts apart, clinging to each other and they rode the edge before crumbling into the sheets.

 

 _'Like a sand castle under the force of a wave'_ ,Grantaire thought idly, the trembling in his muscles barely subsiding before he rolled onto his side. With anyone else this would be the point where he would drag a pillow to his body, burrowing his face in it and letting himself enjoy the precious minutes of peace his mind allowed him. Usually there was a constant stream of _you're not good enough_ mixed in with pulses of _worthless_ and _stupid_. Sometimes, just to mix it up, his brain would even splash out _untalented little faggot_. Just to make it different.

 

But not with Enjolras so affectionate and close. In the orator's intimidating presence, his self-hatred seemed to retreat and hide in these moments.

 

Enjolras beat him to the first move, sliding up behind the artist and laying an arm across his waist. Grantaire hummed and laced their fingers, squirming around until they fit together comfortably. They were slick with cum and sweat but neither cared. He could feel the blonde panting into his skin and the softening line of his cock resting snugly against his ass.

 

God. He was loathe to jinx it, but this was nothing short of nirvana.

 

“You know,” Enjolras started, “I used to think that when we finally came together it would be harsh.”

 

“What?” he laughed, sounding just as breathless, “You thought it would be more like hate sex?”

 

“I'm not sure,” he kissed the wing of his shoulder blade, “I used to daydream about leaving bruises on you that the others would see. I thought I'd want...?”

 

“Hm?” Grantaire prompted, knowing just what his idealist was thinking, “You thought you'd want to hurt me? Rough me up a little?”

 

Enjolras snorted, “Well, it sounds barbaric when you put it like that.”

 

“I used to think so to,” he assured him with a squeeze to his hand.

 

“Really?”

 

“I always thought you'd treat me...” he bit at the corner of his mouth, a little sound of residual pleasure escaping him.

 

Enjolras tugged him back until they were face to face, showing him a smile before he kissed him.

 

“I'm not glass,” he promised.

 

“I know,” the blonde tightened his grip in return, “But I take a certain pleasure in knowing I'm one of the things in your life that you can now count on to treat you gently.”

 

“You didn't used to.”

 

“I know all too well,” Enjolras bussed their lips again, soft enough that he had to concentrate to feel it, “I do have quite a lot to make up for.”  


Grantaire felt a pang in his chest. “We both do.”

 

****

 

'Morning' barely applied to the time when Grantaire crawled out of his boyfriend's bed. It was still pitch black outside and the blonde laid fast asleep under the blanket. He somehow managed to sneak away from the Adonis and close himself up in the bathroom. He took his phone out of his pants (which he'd left in there the night before) and dialed up his best friend.

 

“I need a studio,” Grantaire stated, drowning out her attempt at a greeting.

 

“Do you have any idea how early it is?” she paused, “How late it is?”

 

“ 'Ponine.”

 

“What was it?”

 

“A studio,” he replied impatiently, “Now. Today.”

 

“For how long.”

 

“I don't know,” he glanced at himself in the mirror, seeing someone there who he didn't quite hate as much as he did yesterday, “A week.”

 

“Jesus,” Eponine breathed out, “Alright. One week. I hope you have something spectacular planned.”

 

“I think so.”

* * *

**Only[one](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/76772808577/youre-a-siren-an-orator-the-voice-of-the) gifset this time. I couldn't seem to find anything that worked or I haven't already used.**

 


	24. Struck - By Inspiration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire pulls a disappearing act. Enjolras worries. 'Ferre and 'Feyrac figure themselves out, then spoil it, then piece it back together.

The boys crowded up the bar at their favorite pub, elbowing each other for the bartender's attention. The boy manning the drinks was small and blonde with fair skin that grew ruddier with each perverted comment the group threw at him. Every word was accompanied by a smile and punctuated with a wink, keeping the spirits up and light so he didn't think too badly of them.

 

The boy's name tag read _Oliver_ and it was his first night on the job. They probably wouldn't see him again if his flustered stuttering was anything to go by.

 

Enjolras swept in with his usual air of grandeur. It was always the kind of entrance that needed its own background score. The only reason the ABC didn't tease their leader was because they knew he never did it on purpose. It was just his natural rhythm and stride. Nothing he could change. He spotted the boys and hurried to them, the way he didn't bother to loosen his scarf or unbutton his coat telling the all he was on a mission.

 

“Have you seen R?” he asks them all loudly, demanding to be heard over the crowd and the music.

 

“I'm too drunk for this,” one of them muttered, though no one could decipher who exactly said it. They all knew that the two lovebirds had been shacked up (metaphorically) for the past few months and none of them had ever seen a couple more up each other's ass. It was definitely Feuilly who made a rude noise and buried his face in his mug of beer. The rest gave confessed to not have seen their friend for quite some time.

 

“Well,” Joly piped up suddenly, “I've been texting with him for two days. He's working on some big project.”

 

“A project?” Enjolras echoed, golden brows pinching up, “He didn't say anything to me about this. He left my bed a few days ago and I haven't heard from him since. I thought he was upset with me but to blatantly hide-”

 

“ 'Ponine's with him,” Marius interrupted, lips wet with the shots Bahorel had been sliding to him, “She's been doing his homework for him, you know.”

 

“What?” _That_ got Combeferre to look up from his phone, a scowl coming to his own mouth. “That brat. I'll throttle him! A disappearing act is one thing, but academic dishonesty is another.”

 

“You can't take an artist out of his groove,” Jehan fanned his hands out in front of him dramatically, “He needs to keep going until he's finished. We should respect and – more importantly – support him on this. If he needs to shut himself up for a few days, so be it.”

 

“Excuse me if I'm worried about my partner.” Enjolras wasn't sure if he liked that word more than 'boyfriend' but it got his point across well enough.

 

“As you should be,” Joly wagged a finger at the older boy, “I keep reminding him to eat but I'm sure he has nothing but coffee and those awful meal replacement shakes in his belly.”

 

Courfeyrac nodded along. “I'm not sure how Grantaire operates but I'm almost certain he likes to go 'all liquid' when he's knee deep in paint.”

 

“I wonder what he's making,” Jehan sighed with a sparkle in his eyes, “If he didn't tell Enjolras of all people where he was going, then it must be something outstanding.”

 

“It'd be his first serious piece in a while,” Lesgle chimed in from the farthest point of the line.

 

“That's not true,” Joly countered, “He has a lovely portrait by his window right now.”

 

Enjolras swore the tips of his ears caught fire by how hot they got. “You've seen that?”

 

There was a grin starting on the medic's mouth. “Of course.”

 

*****

 

Combeferre woke abruptly with an undignified snort, a knock echoing in his head. Where was he? What time was it? He groaned and closed his eyes tight, an embarrassed blush coming over his face. He'd fallen asleep studying and his cheek was glued rather unattractively to his book. He was still in his (now rumpled) clothes. A certifiable mess.

 

It took him much too long to realize that the sound was coming from his door. He braced his palms against the bed and pushed himself up, scowling and wiping his face with the edge of his shirt. The blonde practically rolled off the mattress, shuffling across the flattened carpet to the door to see who was knocking this late. (Early? No, _late_.) He flipped the lock and pulled it open, frowning deeply when he was met with the sight of his roommate standing there. Courfeyrac had a blanket around his shoulders and a surprised look on his face.

 

“What's wrong?” Combeferre dug his glasses out of his hair and set them on the bridge of his nose, “Is everything alright? You look as if someone's broken in.”  


The boy's wide eyed look set aflame his protective instincts. He grabbed a handful of blanket and dragged his roommate inside, sharp eyes dancing around the hall and front room.

 

“Is there someone in the house?” he whispered, fingers still tight in the material.

 

Raven curls bounced. “No. No one.”

 

Combeferre visibly deflated. “Then what is so important? I was studying.”

 

“You were sleeping,” Courfeyrac pointed to his face, “You've got a book edge imprint on your cheek.”

 

“ _That_ doesn't matter,” he rubbed his knuckles along the mark, “What's do you want?”

 

“I want to go to dinner,” the younger replied simply.

 

“It's very late,” Combeferre let him go to take off his glasses and pinch the bridge of his nose, “There's nothing open that delivers. Are you high again?”

 

“I'm sober,” Courfeyrac promised, “And I meant dinner with you. Outside. Like you said before.”

 

“A date?” that short-circuited whatever brain function he had managed to scramble together since he woke up, “You want to go on a _date_ with me?”

 

His nose scrunched up irritably. “Yes. Is that so fucking hard to understand?”

 

“It is when you not only said 'no', but you told me I was an idiot for considering it!” Combeferre snapped before he could stop himself.

 

“Don't yell at me!” Courfeyrac's sneer was as cruel as ever, “It's not my fault you've got me confused! Like I'm supposed to know everything? I'm not Jehan, I can't just _know_ what I want and pursue it relentlessly! God, 'Ferre. I've got a lot to lose here.”

 

“And I don't?” he shot back with disbelief, “Do you have any idea how hard it was to ask you that? To admit my feelings despite all the overwhelming evidence against me?”

 

“Do I...?” Courfeyrac started breathlessly, catching his voice again with a new anger, “Do _you_ have any idea what it's like to walk into your home one day and realize you share it with someone you love? You _ruined_ me at the bridge and I've been trying to piece myself together ever since!”

 

Combeferre scoffed, “Do not act the child with me, it doesn't suit you.”

 

He'd never seen Courfeyrac look so distraught, nor ever his eyes so dark.

 

“If it's only a child who can't understand when they're in love, then so be it!”

 

Combeferre felt the cap snap off his temper and he grabbed the darker man by the arms, slamming him against the doorway. The blanket fell from Courfeyrac's shoulders and fluttered to the floor, showing off miles of pale skin that was only interrupted by a pair of very unlawfully small underwear. The academic felt his mouth go dry and realized just how precarious his position was. Courfeyrac (being the little shit he was) flexed purposefully under his grip so he could feel the swell of his muscle. Gods above, this was no boy under his hands. It was a man who could outrun even Enjolras and had a tongue so quick and sharp he was almost afraid to debate with him sometimes. The muscle didn't stop at his arms. It laced down his chest, roping thick across his stomach, braiding itself into powerful thighs covered in dark hair that led to calves that could only be described as 'curvy'.

 

Courfeyrac was watching him. The shame sent heat across his cheeks and down the back of his neck.

 

“Fine,” he conceded through clenched teeth, “Is tomorrow good for you?”

 

“I was hoping Friday.”

 

He shook his head, “Friday's no good. I have work and then Enjolras and I-”

 

He cut himself off with a little intake of breath.

 

“Never mind.”

 

“You two are meeting without me?” Courfeyrac's brow knit, the words coming out slow as he realized it was true, “You two never meet without me.”

 

“Just this once,” Combeferre loosened his grip, rubbing the skin a little to soothe the ache his vice must have left behind, “I was going to talk to you about it.”

 

“About what, exactly?” the edge was back to his tone, “What are you two planning?” 

 

Combeferre wasn't sure what else to say but the truth. “A future.”

 

“How poetically vague,” Courfeyac spat, “What's it all about? Are you two planning to run away together?”

 

Guilt must have worked itself across his face in one way or another because the younger man's jaw dropped as if scandalized.

 

“You are!” Courfeyrac shoved him so hard he stumbled back and smacked into the edge of his desk. “How dare you!? What of R and his feelings? Did you ever think about that, you selfish prick?”

 

“Selfish?” Combeferre echoed, “I am many things but I am not selfish. You can't think beyond your dick or you would see that Enjorlas and I have been planning to leave this place since the beginning!”

 

Two fingers came up to cover his lips, as if they could help him swallow back up the words.

 

“Leave?” Courfeyrac's ran hollow now, the fire gone as if doused, “What, is Rouen not good enough for you? Is R not good enough for him?”

 

He swallowed thickly, lips curling around words that struck a chord deep within his friend's chest.

 

“Am...am _I_ not enough for _you_?”

 

“ 'Feryac, please,” Combeferre came back into the man's space, carefully laying his hands on bare shoulders, “I love this city. I love our friends and Fantine and Valjean. I love everything we've done here. I adore this place and though you may have hurt me a little you've been the greatest friend and flat mate a man could ask for.”

 

His thumb rested in the dips of marble collarbones.

 

“It's just that...Enjolras is a force,” he began hesitantly, “You've seen it, you've felt it. He can do so much more somewhere – well, _larger_. He needs room to grow. He needs an opportunity to do some real good in this world.”

 

“And he can do all that with you by his side but not me?” There was betrayal carved all over his handsome face. “Have I not served him as faithfully? Haven't I proven myself worthy at every turn? Why would he tell _you_ and not _me_?”

 

“Because he didn't think you'd want to leave,” Combeferre replied honestly, “He thought you were too deeply rooted in Rouen and he didn't want to rip you away from her. He was just doing what he thought was best.”

 

“He was wrong!” Courfeyrac yanked him into a hug, their bodies colliding harshly. A rush of musk filled Combeferre's nose; there was sweat from the pickup game of football earlier, the salt of the chips he'd eaten at the bar, and he was hot all over.

 

“My place is beside both of you, as it has been these past five years.” There was a sharp sniff next to his ear. “I've invested my heart within you two and if you leave, so help me God, I will kill you both in cold blood on the street.”

 

Combeferre could feel his heart swelling with remorse over all the secrecy and he had to hug his friend back to keep it from bursting.

 

“And...” Courfeyrac dug his fingers into the blonde's shoulder, “I may have invested myself a little too deeply within one of you.”

 

“Courfeyrac,” the taste of the boy's full name on his tongue was almost bitter, “Don't tease me.”

 

“I'm not teasing,” the ravenette promised, pulling back and looking up into his face with that same pinched expression, “I'm just...confused. I'm unsure.”

 

Combeferre let himself study the other's face as he'd done a hundred times before. He was so handsome; an aristocratic nose, shell pink lips, chocolate curls that framed a blessedly expressive face. Every time the man smiled he carved deep lines into his skin and they only accentuated his bone structure. It slayed the ladies, and it latched a chain around his heart. One he was more than happy to have. He couldn't leave it like this. He couldn't hurt his friend this way.

 

“Can I kiss you?” he asked suddenly, unplanned.

 

“Yes,” Courfeyrac replied tentatively.

 

Combeferre seized the moment and bent down, noting the other's big eyes before he closed his own. He found his lips to be perfectly soft and yielding, the stale taste of cigarettes clinging to them. He flicked his tongue out for a brief taste before he managed to pry himself away. Another second longer and he would've forgotten himself. Courfeyrac, on the other hand, looked like he'd been shocked.

 

“Was that too much?” he asked uncertainly, “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to overwhelm you.”

 

“No one's ever kissed me quite like that,” the younger touched the tip of his lips, a shadow of what Combeferre had done earlier to choke back his words.

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like they mean it?” Courfeyrac said it like a question, like he wasn't sure what he was saying.

 

“Sweetheart,” the endearment slipped out, like so much of everything in this night, “I would kiss you like that every day if you would allow it.”

 

Courfeyrac fell against him, breathless, staring up at him like he held all the secrets that God ever created. It was most definitely not a swoon, but it was close.

 

Close enough to give him hope.

 

*****

 

Enjolras didn't want to lower himself to stalking but he had little choice left. Three and a half days of zero contact and he was getting antsy. He'd try to respect the man's space and give him his artistic time, but it was getting to the point where he couldn't think of anything else. A good run had always fixed his problems before but this time it just left him with sore knees and calves worked down to embers. He'd written two speeches, completed three papers, and reread _Slaughterhouse Five_. With every word and mile all his blood sang of was a steady rhythm of _Gran-taire, Gran-taire, Gran-taire_.

  
It brought him here to the art building. He'd gone through great pains to get Eponine's schedule and he knew that any moment she'd walk out the doors. And when she finally did, he pounced. He caught her between the stairs and the wall and effectively boxed her in with a hand on the shoulder.

 

“Enjolras,” she said with her usual distaste.

 

“He won't answer his phone.”

 

“He's busy,” Eponine pulled a sour face and shrugged off his touch, “I don't expect someone like you to understand.”

 

“Someone like me?” he parroted.

 

“A non-artistic type. You don't understand the process.”

 

“Not this nonsense again.” Enjolras couldn't help but roll his eyes. “Can't you tell me where he is?”

 

Eponine made a move to leave but he stepped in her path, hands pressed together like he was praying.

 

“I'm worried,” he admitted, “I just want to make sure he's alright.”

 

Eponine's dark eyes nearly burned through him but after a few moments her persona broke.

 

“For fuck's sake, Enjolras,” she cursed lowly, “He made me promise not to tell you.”

 

That gave him pause. “What?”

 

“I don't know,” she pulled out her phone, “I'll text you the address. But don't go over until tomorrow. He's almost done and he's never going to forgive me if you see it before it's ready.”

 

Enjolras huffed. “His health means more to me than some painting.”

 

She laughed loudly, right in his face, “You haven't seen it.”

 

This time she got past him, breezing by as if this was all quite easy and simple.

 

“I'm the one who stays up with him, you know.”

 

Her shoes skidded to a stop on the pavement.

 

“You may be his best friend, and he may love you more than anything, but I'm the one who gets up and sits with him when the nightmares get to be too much,” Enjolras jutted out his chin, daring her to argue, “Between his own mind and Montparnasse's shadow, I can't get him to lay down for five hours at a time. So excuse me for worrying about his health.”

 

Dark nails bit into the strap of her bag, knuckles whitening. “He didn't tell me he was having nightmares.”

 

“He doesn't want anyone to know how much it is affecting him,” Enjolras inched closer, keeping his voice down for some semblance of privacy, “I like to spend the nights with him.”

 

She grimaced. “What? Out of pity?”

 

“For selfish reasons,” Enjolras' eyes flickered to the pavement, “He needs someone to be there for him and I...I like to be that person. More than I'd care to admit.”

 

“You barely deserve him.” Her judgment was swift and cool, passing through him like a fresh blade. “ _Barely_.”

 

***

 

Enjolras hunted his lover down by address alone, using his phone as a horribly unreliant GPS. He found himself huddled into his scarf and jacket outside a warehouse late into the night. Much later than was proper for a man his age to be out and about in search of someone who may or may not have been drunk. Though the place looked abandoned, there was actually a front desk with a sweet older woman behind it to answer the phone and have guests sign a check-in booklet. She politely answered his question about where exactly he'd walked into. It was a housing for art studios, temporary places for artists to create in relative quiet in their own spaces.

 

It was quite genius. If he were inclined to such crafts, he would've been taking advantage of it.

 

There were no real doors, just gaping garage size openings leading into studios with only heavy curtains to give them any sort of privacy. There were half a dozen long, white hallways and he picked the one with the 'six' above it. He doubled checked Eponine's message and set off down it, eyes dancing from each labeled room in search of the letters 'CC'. And when he found it he went with instinct and yanked back the curtain, revealing the room.

 

A tarp had bee put down on the cement floor. Almost every inch was covered or at least speckled in red paint. Buckets upon buckets of the material were carelessly laid open around the room, two different sized ladders collapsed on top of them. Puddles turned tacky as smears and splotches of color dried on the walls. Brushes lay abandoned amongst the carnage, crumbled paper balls that once were sketches molded into wet piles on the ground, and one canvas was ripped to ruins in the corner. Its successor was propped against the back wall and stood no less than ten feet tall.

  
Upon it was the most beautiful mural he'd ever seen. It was an archangel, a soldier, or a god – it had to be. The whole work had to be a companion piece to the smaller painting in Grantaire's apartment. This was a play of light and shadow with only a single subject matter in the middle. A man and a pedestal, a short sword in his hand and what looked like a scroll in the other. There were very little details of the shape, just the hint of a jaw and a few lines of clothes to give him dimensions. The sword gleamed at the end and there was a well-crafted string holding the scroll together. The outline showed curls with hints of gold and long legs, the pedestal stone and grey beneath his dark feet.

 

It punched the breath out of him.

 

When Enjolras was finally able to tear his eyes away from it, he discovered his boyfriend sitting beside the door. He was slicked in paint up to his shoulders, a ripped sleeveless shirt stained black and matted to his chest and shoulders. His jeans were ruined as well and their ratty bottoms gave way to bare feet, the pale soles of them stained gold. The boy had yet to notice him, his eyes were glued to the mural though there was exhaustion across his face. There were tears on his cheeks, small trickles that disappeared into the heavy scruff of his week-old beard.

 

“Darling,” he breathed out, a mix of worry and relief in his voice, “Why are you crying?”

 

“Isn't it beautiful?” Grantaire pointed with a heavy hand to the painting, “I...it's so...”

 

“It's gorgeous, R,” Enjolras hooked his finger in his scarf to loosen the material, “I've missed you.”

 

“I did this for you,” Grantaire proclaimed with sleepy grandeur, “This is what you are to me.”

 

The blonde frowned. “I don't understand.”

 

“You're everything,” he tilted his head back, showing off the diamond-gleam of his eyes and the sweet curve of his lips, “Do you like it?”

 

“I love it,” Enjolras dropped down to his knees in front of him, cradling the other's jaw in the palm of his hand, “Are you finished?”

 

“Yeah,” dark curls bounced softly as his head dipped, lashes fluttering with another wave of sleepiness, “I just got done a little while ago.”

 

“Do you know it's midnight?” he asked gently, trying not to startle the younger man.

 

Grantaire clenched his eyes shut, gathering his bearings. “What day is it?”

 

“Friday.”

 

“Oh,” Grantaire patted at his pockets thoughtfully, “I, uh, I don't have my phone. I'm sorry. We had a date, didn't we?” A titter of panic raced across his expression. “Oh God, Enj, I'm so sorry.”

 

“It's quite alright,” he laughed, releasing all that balled up nervous energy, “I'm just happy you're okay. Do you want to come home with me? Get a bath, maybe a shave?”

 

Grantaire grinned when the blonde's fingers tickled under his chin where the hair was thickest.

 

“Though, I must admit, I kind of like the rugged look on you,” Enjolras mused, each word bringing the artist up out of his haze.

 

“Oh, do you?”

  
Grantaire grabbed him by the collar and dragged him down until their mouths could meet. It was sudden and rough, lips bruising as the taste of primer and the smell of paint swirled between them. It was bitter, base, like soap. It was passionate, at first, but gradually the ravenette's fingers loosened their death grip. Enjolras pulled back with a tisk, scratching his nails through those dark curls.

 

“You're falling asleep,” he scolded, the other's eyes already shut. “It's late, R, you should be home.”

 

There was nothing but a murmur for a reply. Enjolras just shook his head and urged him up, yanking him up like Feuilly had taught him until the artist was draped across his back. Grantaire grumbled about a 'piggy back ride' and managed to wrap his arms around the blonde's neck, the grip of his thighs a little weaker. After getting the weight balance and deciding he would be able to do this all the way to the car, and after another minute of contemplating why that wasn't a good thing, he started out of the room and down the hall again. This time there was no burden of worry, only pounds.

 

“ 'M ruining your clothes.” The words were loud in his ear.

 

“Be quiet. I don't want to hear it.”

 

The rude look they got from the front desk secretary was worth everything.

 

***

 

Enjolras rolled the sleeping boy into his passenger seat, getting a few more tired rumbles but this time he didn't wake up at all. He buckled Grantaire up and made sure he was comfortable before he got behind the wheel, starting the car up and turning on the heat in hopes of killing the chill of the night. He drove through the city, taking the longest route home to give his boyfriend time to nap.

 

The street lights played off his pale face. Dark lashes fluttered occasionally bust mostly they laid against the sleepless bruises under his eyes. His poor R. His starving artist. His talented little sufferer. After he made him sleep at least eight hours, he was going to cook up at least three courses and shove them all down his throat.

 

Enjolras would suck it up and play the dutiful, understanding boyfriend but – damn it – he was going to make sure Grantaire survived it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	25. All We Need is...Love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life has settled down for the ABC. Christmas break has come but there's a catch. A phone call from Enjolras' father could either make or break our favorite couple. What will they think of such a deal? Will this cheapen their new found happiness? Do all we really need in life is love, or is the world so cruel that we just need more?

**Oh man, the last full chapter. And it had a twist!! Are you excited? I am. This is going to be fantastic. I really hope you guys like this. I think it adds a gritty, real edge to this (perhaps) fairytale romance.**

* * *

 

The ABC settled in for a long winter break. Classes were passed (and in Lesgle’s case, _weren’t_ ) and celebrations were had. There was only one semester to go until most of them officially graduated. They managed to get everyone together (even Feuilly, Éponine, and Cossette) and met at Les Amis in hopes of hammering out everyone’s holiday schedule to work the meetings around. Courfeyrac had sent out a mass text saying that he wanted to take point on setting up a protest against Interbev for their new chemically-laced food policy for their cows. He was adamant about the purity of meat and he’d been collecting signatures for weeks. Enjolras hoped to have a good head count and a date set before school began, and with a little bit of luck they’d be able to negotiate down to meeting terms.

 

With everyone at the table (now except Joly who had called an hour before and stated he’d be taking an Official Mental Health Day), the idealist had spread out a giant calendar across the polished wooden table. One by one he asked everyone how they had planned their holiday and marked the responses down on the specified dates with significantly colored pens. Red for family dinners, green for out of the city visiting, black for complete unavailability, and so on and so forth.

 

Everyone was laughing and talking, complaining about family and rubbing snow-filled adventures in each other’s faces. It was uplifting, joyous. Christmas was creeping closer and it felt like their coffees had been laced with good spirits. They were about half way through the calendar when the phone on the table started to ring.

 

Grantaire glanced up from his sketch. “Well, that’s new.”

 

“It’s probably Joly.” Enjolras actually sounded excited about the prospect as he leaned over the edge and pressed the speaker button, fingers snatching up a pen to start writing. “Joly, it’s good to hear from you. I wish you had come. What’s your schedule like?”

 

“ _Why? Are you planning on coming over for Christmas dinner_?”

 

The voice was far too deep to be Joly's. The color drained from their fearless leader's face the moment he heard it. An unease crept through the hearts of the ABC. They went quiet and still, waiting with bated breath.

 

“Father?” Enjolras' voice was uncharacteristically childish, the suddenness of it all throwing him off, “H-How did you get this number?”

 

Grantaire's pencil stilled when he heard the blonde stutter.

 

“ _My little bleeding heart_ ,” his father sounded almost fond, “ _If I can find no one else in the world, I'll always find you_.”

 

There was a hearty laugh over the line. “ _That kind of sounds like a threat, doesn't it? Trust me, boy, it wasn't meant to be. Can't a father call and check up on his son_?”

 

“I'm kind of in the middle of something at the moment,” Enjolras' words were slow to come out, the weight of his friends collective stare settling heavily upon his shoulders, “I'll call you back later.”

 

“ _Oh_!” It was an exclamation of realization. “ _You're with your little group. How quaint. Don't let me interrupt your playtime_.”

 

Enjolras' sigh morphed into a sneer at the last statement. “I'd hardly call the work I'm doing 'playtime'.”

 

“ _Alright, alright_ ,” his father huffed, “ _I'm not calling to start a fight. I have a reason_.”

 

“I really can't do this now, Father-”

 

“ _I've heard you're seeing someone_.”

 

Enjolras stretched out across the table to grab the phone but Bahorel was quicker, snatching the base of the device and pulling it out of his read. He shook his head silently, pointedly keeping it away even as tan fingers desperately grasped for it.

 

“Give me that.”

 

All he got was another head shake.

 

“ _This Grantaire_ ,” his father started, giving the whole group a start. Cossette laid a nervous hand on Marius' own, squeezing it and glancing over at their blanching artist. “ _I know his family. I play racket with his father_.”

 

“Well thank Heaven for that,” Enjolras snarked, “I thought you didn't get any exercise at all. I was sure your heart would simply give out in your chair.”

 

“ _If you're truly worried about my heart, you'd go after his sister instead_.”

 

Grantaire scoffed loudly. The man mistook it for his son.

 

“ _Don't give me that. She's pretty enough. I've seen her at the fund-raising gallas. But no! You pick the exiled child that they don't even talk about. Sometimes I think you're trying to kill me_.”

 

“I'd rather not talk about this on the phone,” Enjolras repeated, “Or at all, if we can avoid it.”

 

“ _We can't. And I'm getting to the point_ ,” the older man huffed, “ _Is this whole affair serious_?”

 

The blonde made another grab for the phone, Bahorel jerked it back.

 

“It's none of your business,” he hissed, still silently demanding the device.

 

“ _Ange_ ,” the childhood nickname made him flinch, that along with his father's impatient tone, “ _Is it serious?_ ”

 

The blonde tiredly plopped down into his seat, “ _Père_...”

 

“ _Enjolras_.”

 

The others watched his handsome face curl into a snarl, teeth out and brows knit.

 

“Yes it's serious!” Enjolras burst out angrily, hand coming down to smack the table, “Not that you've ever cared about my love life before, but it is! And if you try to make it difficult for us you'll find a serious fight on your hands, the likes of which you've never seen from me!”

 

There was a brief second of silence before his father burst out laughing, grew guffaws echoing through the room. Enjolras blushed darkly at the response, hand curling into a fist on the tabletop. The ABC were shocked. That tone, those words...they had always sent men running for the hills. It was what he used to drive ice through the blood of their enemies. It had even made them cower.

 

“ _There's daddy's spitfire_.”

 

“God, I hate you,” Enjolras grumbled and covered his eyes, more embarrassed than anything.

 

“ _Well, that's just too bad_.”

 

“Why are you calling again? To mock my life choices?”

 

“ _I'm calling about your dot_.”

 

“Oh. My. God.” Enjolras felt as if his head was going to burst. He knew he must have looked a few seconds from an aneurysm but he couldn't keep his blood from burning. “My _what?!_ ”

 

“ _Dowry. It's like a trustfund, but a bribe_ ,” his father explained patiently.

 

He couldn't believe it. “Father! For goodness sake, quit being ridiculous!”

 

“You have a _dowry_? What are you, a Victorian heiress?” Grantaire smacked a hand over his mouth after the jibe, trying to smother his laughter, “Oh man, and I thought it wasn't worth coming in today!”

 

“ _Is that him_?”

 

Grantaire shut up rather quickly, staring at the phone with wide eyes. He'd forgotten the gravity of the situation. The group murmured behind hands to one another.

 

“ _Hmph_.” It wasn't exactly a displeased sound. “ _He sounds girly enough_.”

 

The artist frowned. “Hey! I do not!”

 

“ _Young man_ ,” the group's whispering died out, “ _Is it serious for you too_?”

 

Grantaire tried to catch his boyfriend's eyes but the blonde had his head down on the table, muttering about how he hated his family. Lesgle and Bahorel nodded in unison, pointing to the phone. Combeferre elbowed him in the side, making a face that said he needed to tell the truth.

 

“Yes, he admitted reluctantly, “As serious as it is for him.”

 

“ _Good, good_ ,” there was a clinking of ice, “ _Well, as good as it can be to have a faggot for a son_.”

 

Enjolras's head shot up, scowl deep on his plump lips, “If you're going to be rude, this conversation's over.”

 

“ _So when's the wedding_?”

 

Courfeyrac made a sound like a startled donkey, but he got a hold of himself before it could escalate. Éponine ducked under the table to smother her laughter, Jehan quickly following with a little squeak. Marius and Feuilly covered their faces, one from second hand embarrassment and the other from exasperation. The artist shoved a thumbnail between his teeth, staring at their leader in hopes of a hint on what to say.

 

“We're done,” Enjolras stood up, demanding the phone. This time it was Combeferre who took it away, lips pursed. “Hand it over.”

 

“Let's hear what he has to say,” Combeferre advised under his breath.

 

“ _I don't think you understand what I'm trying to do for you, boy_ ,” Enjolras' father spoke up, “ _I'm trying to save this self-destructive relationship you've thrown yourself into_.”

 

“Self-destructive?” the blonde echoed hollowly. 

 

“ _You and I both know that you're a completely unlovable twat_.” The words struck him like a slap. “ _They used to give large dowries to fat, plain girls and if your personality had a form it would be just that. You have your mother's good looks but that will only get you so far. This is an incentive to stick around. Have you even thought of your future, boy_?”  


Enjolras dropped his eyes.

 

“ _If you're to be a politician, you must be married_ ,” his father continued unmercifully, “ _No single representative ever makes it past the first layer, you and I both know that. Even if it's to another man, marriage looks good through the ranks. It shows commitment!_ ”

 

There was another slosh and tinkle of ice in a glass.

 

“ _I prefer you'd have chosen a trophy wife who'll know when to shut up but beggars can't be choosers_ ,” the man gave a sigh so loud it sounded as if he'd been slapped in the chest, “ _Is he pretty? For photo-op sake, I hope so. He better know how to stand and smile. Brat!_ ”

 

Grantaire dropped his hand from his mouth like he used to when his own father would scold him for biting his nails.

 

“ _Are you still there? Can you smile on queue? Ask him if he can smile on queue_.”

 

“I can't believe this,” Marius reclined in his seat, fingers covering his mouth as he stared in horror at the phone cradle.

 

“Even...” Enjolras took a moment to gather himself, “Even if we were considering that step, which we're not, I'd hardly use him as some sort of political piece. He wouldn't be my 'wife', for God's sake, he'd be my partner.”

 

“ _Just call it what it is_ ,” his father sounded as if he were correcting him, “ _He sucks your dick, doesn't he? Let's you fuck him? 'Wife'.”_

 

Grantaire blushed from roots to fingertips, an uncomfortable curl of shame winding in his gut. Combeferre swiftly handed the phone over after that, letting their leader switch it to back to plain speaker. Enjolras took the phone off the hook and turned away towards the window, voice no higher than a rumbling growl.

 

“Listen, old man, I've had enough of this. How dare you?! You can't speak about-!”

 

Enjolras clipped off. He stayed quiet for a long time, knuckles loosening around the phone as he listened to his father's steady stream of dialogue. The others leaned forward in their chairs, straining to hear anything specific. When the blonde finally turned around, his blue eyes were rounded out in comic shock. A loud ' _tell him!_ ' came through the speaker.

 

“My father...” he cleared his throat, the tip of his tongue nervously darting out to wet his bottom lip, “He's offering you – us – a hundred thousand euro if we agree to stay together for the next ten years. There's another hundred thousand just for you if you agree to marry me.”

 

“I, uh,” Grantaire's mouth was gaping enough to catch flies, “W-What?”

 

“I'll do it!” Bahorel shouted suddenly, “Enj's dad? I'll marry him for half the price!”

 

“I'll do it for forty!” Éponine declared, standing up with her hand raised as if it were an auction.

 

“Fuck you guys!” Courfeyrac shoved Éponine down, standing up in her place and cupping his hands around his mouth “Make it a hundred and I'll marry him right now!”

 

Enjolras raised his hand and they all rather obediently shut up.

 

“Father.” The lovers met eyes and held, what was usually a thousand word conversation reduced to mere ' _Is this real?_ ’ “I think we need some time to discuss this. May I call you back at the first of the year? Alright. Yes, goodbye.”

 

Enjolras stepped up to the table once more and hung up the phone, face slowly schooling itself back to his carefully neutral expression. He gave a look around, settling on every face as if double checking to make sure he wasn't having some strange nightmare. Once his impromptu head count was done, he rested his fingertips on the stack of papers Courfeyrac had prepared to bring everyone up to speed on the new chemically injected food policy.

 

“I think we need a ten minute break to get the right head-space back,” Enjolras declared coolly, “Why don't you all go downstairs and get something to drink and a quick snack, talk amongst yourselves, get all of it out. When we get back we'll finish up the calendar, go over 'Feyrac's concerns, cover all the facts, and then we'll put it to a vote. Lesgle, can you call Joly and get his preferences?”

 

The younger man nodded. “Of course.”

 

The blonde shifted in a gesture that was almost nervous. “After we've discussed new business, I'll take any questions about what just happened. There's no reason to draw this out or be secretive.”

 

He raised his head, giving a little nod. “You can go.”

 

Chairs scraped against the floor and jackets were grabbed, cigarettes exchanged as they moved towards the door.

 

“Jehan,” Enjolras called, catching everyone's attention along with the younger blonde's, “Get Grantaire a coffee. He won't be joining you.”

 

The artist took the hint and sat back down, laying his sketchpad on the table. Jehan opened his mouth like he was going to protest but he only nodded, obeying just as easily as Lesgle had done. There was no point in arguing when something this serious was on their minds.

 

Everyone cleared out fast enough after that.

 

Enjolras walked over and leaned against the table, facing the wall. He was so close that his hip brushed Grantaire's shoulder. He stared at the cork board with all its notes and past fliers, intent so sharp it nearly sliced through it all. The other's eyes were downcast, faintly tracing the curves and lines of his half-finished drawing. It was a growing mass of tentacles mauling the beginnings of a sailboat, and the end of his pencil curved out the bottom of the rig until it resembled a heart. It was as symbolic as it was sickening.

 

Grantaire laid the pencil down on the blank half of the page. He was about to drop his hand down into his lap when tan fingers caught his own, tangling them together. Their hands fit together like long-missed pieces, knuckles bumping against the table edge

 

“Darling,” Enjolras' voice was unsurprisingly soft, “I think we have some things to talk about.”

 

Dark curls fluttered as he tilted his head back. “Not now, right?”

 

“No, not now,” Enjolras assured him, “But soon.”

 

***

 

Cossette rushed to tell her step dad and mother about what she'd heard at the meeting and Lesgle went with her, snagging a plate of confections to stuff into his face. With powder sugar on his lips, he explained to the others that he needed a moment to process everything and the answer to all their problems was in the middle of a glazed croissant.

 

The rest headed outside on the Employee Only back patio to smoke and clear their heads. And to gossip.

 

“This whole thing is ridiculous,” Combeferre leaned against the brick wall, smoke pouring out of his nose like an offended dragon, “Leave it up to Enjolras' father to come up with this scheme. Our fathers always seem to do this. They throw money around like it's nothing.”

 

“Bastards.” Bahorel cupped the flame as he lit his cigarette. “I thank God every day my parents grew up middle class and proud. They'd never do something like this.”

 

“Mine would in an instant if they thought it would bite at me,” Jehan sat on the edge of a cement square and ran his fingertips through the white wildflowers that grew along the edges. After a moment of puffing smoke, Feuilly joined him. He had a sour look on his face but he didn't say anything. He didn't need to. They all knew he grew up with dirt under his nails and nothing more than cheap noodles in the cabinet, dragging himself up by the bootstraps and earning every scrap of what he had.

 

The financial display in there was more than enough to make him sick and no one wanted to poke him while he was keeping it all so wonderfully contained.

 

“I think it's great,” Éponine flicked her ashes carelessly, hopping up onto the wall that blocked off the area from the back sidewalk, “R gets what he always wanted, the brat gets more money to fuel his campaigns, where's the downside?”

 

“It's disgusting,” Marius had his hands shoved into his pockets, a promise to his girlfriend keeping him from burning one down too. His plush lips were twisted in a scowl and glared down at the ground, shoes skidding off stray rocks. He looked positively ruffled. “How dare he? That old man is such a bastard. He always has been! How could he cheapen them like this? Enj finally gets something nice and his father has to – has to pissall over it.”

 

Marius' eyes danced from face to face. “Are 'Ferre and I the only ones truly upset about this? Does no one give a thought to how this could affect someone in Grantaire's... _condition_? This could set them back! This display only puts further distance to how truly different the two of them are. What if they break up? They're so happy! I couldn't bear it if-”

 

“That's _enough_ , Marius!” Courfeyrac barked uncharacteristically, tossing his smoldering bud into the grass with a flick of his wrist, “Jesus Christ. We all can't have a fairytale ending. We aren't like you. We can't shack up with a princess and suckle at the teat of love for the rest of our lives. Some of us need more.” He pursed his lips until they were just a thin, white slash across his face. “We need to fight for others and climb corporate ladders. We need to move on to bigger places and better things. And it gets _expensive_ , alright?”

 

He seemed to realize how cruel he sounded and purposefully dropped his eyes to the cement, redirecting some of the ferocity.

 

“So just...stop being such a child,” Courfeyrac grumbled conclusively, “Love isn't just about two hearts throwing themselves into the forge of the destiny-saturated universe and emerging as something whole and complete for the first time in their miserable lives. It's about compromise and security. Money does that. I would take the deal in a second and I don't care who judges me for saying it.”

 

Combeferre opened his mouth but could say nothing against it. Instead he closed it with a click of his teeth and nodded in agreement.

 

“Well put,” Éponine murmured around the end of another cigarette, sucking in the flame of her lighter until smoke poured from between her lips.

 

Marius sputtered around a few comebacks before he just huffed and went back inside, thoroughly whipped. The others followed suit except for the two roommates.

 

“That was quite the little speech you made,” Combeferre stated, pointedly holding out his nearly full pack of smokes, “Come here.”

 

It was rare for Combeferre to smoke, rarer even for him to share his overly expensive brand. Courfeyrac shuffled over and accepted one, popping it past his lips and leaning in when the blonde offered him a light. They stayed close enough for the wisps to billow between them.

 

“You don't really think that, do you?” the older man asked softly, trying not to ruffle his friend's feathers.

 

“I do,” he cut him a sharp look, “Is there a problem?”

 

“No. You have a point,” Combeferre conceded, “Love isn’t as rose-tinted as Marius believes it is. But I don’t think of it as coldly as you do.”

 

“I don’t think coldly of it,” Courfeyrac mocked his tone, “It’s a beautiful thing. I’m a firm believer in love.”

 

A brow raised. “You nearly made him cry.”

 

“Maybe he needs it,” Courfeyrac took a hard drag off the cigarette, burning his lungs up, “He is as soft as he was a teenager. He needs to harden up if he wants to survive.”

 

“What fault is there to not having edges?”

 

“The world will eat him and you know it,” Courfeyrac rebuked, “He’s always had us to protect him and he’s suffered for it.”

 

“And you’d only be so concerned if it meant that fact would change.” Combeferre seemed to perk up, like a switch had been flipped. “Does this mean you’ve considered my offer?”

 

“Where you two go I shall follow,” he sounded more resigned than anything else. “I must follow my heart and all that.”

 

Combeferre slumped against the wall. “I’m not forcing you to do anything.”

 

“Like hell you aren’t,” he flashed his teeth around the cigarette, “Why would I want to be anywhere you aren’t? How bright is my world without Enjolras? You’re both bastards for making me this co-dependent mess.”

 

“I hate it when you’re like this,” Combeferre’s nose crinkled up, “It reminds me too much of Grantaire.”

  
“I didn’t say I would change it, did I?” The younger man dropped his cigarette to the ground and ground his heel into the smoldering tip. With the pissy look still on his face, Courfeyrac stepped up and grabbed the academic by the back of his neck. Combeferre was about to tell him to go fuck himself but his lips became otherwise occupied. The sudden touch sent a rush through him. The ravenette kissed with the same single-track mind he did everything else with and the few kisses they'd shared had been like a drug in his system. Hot, refreshing, sweet. Like coffee.

 

Caffeine and Courfeyrac. The sweetest of addictions.

 

Combeferre snagged a finger under the ravenette's belt, pulling him off balance with a sharp tug. Color came to pale cheeks as he fell into the older man, an almost instant replay of their first kiss. Courfeyrac tore his lips away but he didn't take the step back to separate.  


“Combeferre.” It was low and breathy, a scold for their overly public display.

 

“You're the one who kissed me.” The blonde snuck his fingers up and around the edge of his roommate's pants, nails grazing the dark curls that led to something he was looking forward to getting familiar with. “You're the one taking my cigarettes and throwing your arm over my chair during the meeting. _And_...”

 

He stole another kiss, getting a little moan in reward.

 

“You're the one who didn't want to tell our friends.”

 

“We had one date.” Courfeyrac was red around the hairline, the makings of a blush. “We've no proper title to give them and I'd rather wait for – you know.”  


“What?” he clucked, “For us to be serious? Is that what you were about to say to me?”

 

“No,” he lied, the color now sneaking across his cheeks.

 

“My friend,” Combeferre sighed, stepping aside and slipping his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, “You truly have no idea. I fear I will spend my entire life waiting around for you to get your head out of your ass. Please excuse me.”

 

The blonde cocked his head and dipped in a little bow before he headed back inside, leaving his friend out in the cold.

 

Courfeyrac blinked dumbly. “What just happened?”

 

***

 

It was a week later before the stars aligned and the time was right. With a cloudy evening stretched out across Rouen, Enjolras led his boyfriend out to the nearest park with clear intentions. The blonde swung a scarf around both their necks and Grantaire pulled a hat down over his curls, both taking a look in the mirror and declaring that the younger needed a haircut.

 

They followed the sidewalk all the way until they found an out-of-the-way bench nestled next to a tree. It overlooked the eastern part of the city; the sunset peaked behind thick laces of clouds and cast a colored shadow on the sky. They settled down together, great sighs escaping their suddenly-heavy chests. Enjolras reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, the brand unfamiliarly expensive.

 

“Apollo,” Grantaire made it sound a like a tease wrapped up in a scold.

 

“Let's forget about our health today, shall we?” Enjolras beat the bottom of the pack with his palm. “We have so many other things to think about.”

 

The artist shrugged before accepting, taking out his lighter and flicking it up. They lit the end of their cigarette by one flame, heads together long enough for the blonde to steal a kiss. The chill in the air chapped their lips and colored their cheeks but they didn't mind. They took warmth from each other, sitting shoulder to shoulder with enough tension between them to spark a fire.

 

“It's larger than my trust fund,” Enjolras stated, holding in a thick breath of smoke. It hoarsened it voice and sent a sharp bolt of arousal straight to the younger man's cock. 

 

“It's more money than I've ever seen.” Grantaire glanced over, a smirk on his lips. “It could buy a lot of posters.”

 

Enjolras tried to laugh but it rang hollow, “We could use it. It could be a catalyst for our future.”

 

“We do need that,” Grantaire conceded, “Who's stupid idea was it to make the ABC non-profit, anyway?”

 

“I'm talking about _our_ future,” Enjolras replied in all seriousness, “It could do a lot of things for _us_ , as a couple.”

 

Grantaire was caught between a shiver and a gape. “You're actually thinking of taking it, aren't you?”

 

Enjolras frowned deeply. “Of course I am.”  


“Jesus Christ,” Grantaire cursed, ignoring the disgust the man always showed when he took the name in vain, “You might as well weave that money into a chain, Enjolras, because that’s all it'll be. A rope around your neck to keep you tied to him and, subsequently, _me_. He'll never let you go. You won't be able to just walk away from me whenever you please.”

 

“I've considered that,” he flicked ashes onto the ground, eyes dancing across their shoes as if looking for solid answers, “Please don't think me crass, but of that money your mother left you...how much is left?”

 

Grantaire shut his eyes tight. He tried not to picture his mother's saintly face in the same moments he thought of how little he had left in his bank account. She'd tried so hard to set him up for the rest of his life but she'd died blissfully unaware of how fucked up her son would grow up to be. Between college and the up in his rent...the two year drinking binge...

 

“Enough.”

 

Enjolras' shook his head, smoke trailing over his full lips. “I know it's rude and unromantic, R, but be honest with me.”

 

“Not a lot,” he replied honestly.

 

“Me either,” a half smile came onto his face, “I've yet to dip into my trust fund. I was using it as my nest egg. My job doesn't pay like it should and I funnel everything I have into the cause.”

 

“Why are you telling me this?”

 

“It's as couples should. Finances aren't as forbidden as our parents always told us,” Enjolras' shrugged, “And with graduation coming up, my plans...I just...”

 

He took a long drag off the cigarette. Grantaire dug the heel of his palm into the growing bulge of his erection. Those full lips curled around the bud, the highlight of his cheekbones when he inhaled, the curl of smoke that spilled from his mouth and down his chin...it was sexy. He'd always found there was a gritty attraction that came with smoking but his Apollo (as always) took it to a new level. He wasn't sure if Enjolras was just that beautiful or he was that in love. Either way, it was a compliment the other man wouldn't appreciate, so he kept it to himself.

 

And there was his brain doing what it did best – taking something serious and shoving it aside so his dick could think for him.

 

“The money would help me bring some things to life,” Enjolras finished.

 

Grantaire stubbed his cigarette out against the stone bench, shedding his hat and scarf and putting them down as well. He slipped down on the ground between his boyfriend's legs, laying a hand on each knee. It felt right to be down on the ground, looking up at all he believed in. It felt like prayer.

 

“Grantaire?”

 

“Do you understand what you'd have to do to get this money?” Grantaire hated to say it but he knew he had to, if only to get it out in the air, “He'll probably make us sign something. That means legal documents and your signature saying you'll stick with me for ten _years_. Enjolras, my muse, my absolute everything – I wouldn't ask you to stick by me for ten _days_. It's too much. It's not fair to you.”

 

He bit hard on the side of his lip, bracing himself for how much the next words would hurt.

 

“I don't want to be woven in with that rope. I don't want to be used to bind you to your father. I know...I know how much you hate him. I don't want to be part of that.”

 

The older shook his head silently before offering his cigarette. Grantaire took it, letting the nicotine hit his system again.

 

“Even if I were to accept this offer, I could never think of you like that,” Enjolras promised, watching the artist's mouth just as closely as his own had been watched, “I would think of it as a clean business transaction.”

 

His boyfriend handed him back the cigarette. “And don't think for a moment that I wouldn't negotiate our agreement off paper. I would be verbal only. A formal arrangement. I would dump it into the best bank I could find so he could never touch it.”

 

“I don't want you to stay with me for money,” Grantaire spat with venomous heartbreak, “I may not view myself very highly, but I'm not a paid whore.”

 

Enjolras seemed surprised for a moment before that private tenderness came back to his eyes. The kind he couldn't show in front of the ABC, the kind reserved only for him – Enjolras' lover. A tan hand came down and touched the vulnerable, freshly bared dip of his throat. His thumb grazed the dark stubble of his cheek. These small reassurances drained the indignation out of him.

 

“No amount of money could ever make me stay with someone I didn't care about,” Enjolras brushed some dark curls away from his face, a tidying tick that Grantaire had learned long ago meant he was uncomfortable with the subject matter, “I wish you didn't think so little of me in that regard. I'm just thinking of what's best for both of us.”

 

“I believe you.” He leaned into the touch. “You know I'll do whatever you want.”

 

“Does that meant you're leaving the decision up to me?”

 

“Enjolras,” he grabbed the blonde's hand and pulled it to his mouth for a small kiss, “I'm an artist with no prospects and no family that wants him. As sad and desperate as it seems, you're the best thing I have going for me. I don't expect you to take it, though. The fact that you're considering it is enough for me.”

 

Enjolras' mouth fell open and shut a few times before he could speak. “Enough for what?”

 

“Enough for me to know that my love for you isn't entirely one-sided,” Grantaire grinned brightly. “Or unfounded.”

 

Even as they moved to sit side by side again and decidedly talked of other things, it was clear something didn't sit right with Enjolras.

 

***

 

They didn't talk about it again after that. School started up again and all of the ABC promptly forgot about the phone call in order to fill their heads with figures and facts once more. Grantaire himself considered the matter closed and threw the idea out of his head, refusing to swell on it when his boyfriend had clearly stopped channeling energy toward it. If Enjolras considered the matter dead then he was prepared to bury it.

 

Instead, Grantaire let himself fall into the steady ebb and flow of their relationship. It was all he'd dreamed of, even the rough patches where he drank too much or Enjolras brought the frustration of his work into the bedroom. They worked together, they became a team of sorts. And even if they screamed during meetings until they were red in the face, they always calmed down within the hour and made up in the dark corners of the Musain or Les Amis.

 

Grantaire felt privileged just to be a part of it.

* * *

 **Did you like it? Oh, I hope you did. Review me, loves, because this is the last opportunity we'll get to really be together. The next chapter is - indeed - the epilogue. I won't say goodbye now. I'll wait. I couldn't bear to do it now, I'm just too happy and excited to be here.**  

 

 


	26. The End of the Beginning

_We come to love not by finding a perfect person, but by learning to see an imperfect person perfectly._ **  
**Sam Keen

* * *

 

The office had been a madhouse. Everyone had been at each others throats. It as the start of autumn, the season of change and death – of promotions and lay-backs – and it seemed that everyone could feel it. The team of young men Enjolras worked with were practically tearing each others throats out with their teeth. He'd contemplated opening the third story window and leading his coworkers out single file by the authority of the decorative rifle their boss kept over his desk.

 

Enjolras unlocked the door to his apartment and pushed inside, sending up a little thankful prayer that he hadn't accepted either of his best friend's offers to move in with him once they'd moved on to the university. He wasn't in the mood to deal with anything beyond finding the right news channel and the softest clothes he owned. His stomach was twisting on itself with the need to eat but he couldn't even entertain the thought of finding something edible in his house.

 

He walked in and a delicious smell hit him full in the face. Savory, warm, mouth-watering. The TV was on and set to a news station already. The blonde quickly hung up his jacket and put his briefcase aside, following his nose all the way to the kitchen. There was a huge meal laid out on his usually paper-strewn wooden table. All the files and books that had been there before were now stacked neatly against the wall. A painter with a stubbled jaw knelt in front of the oven, watching through the little window as whatever was inside baked to (most likely) perfection.

 

Grantaire turned to look at him, long curls bouncing across his forehead and grazing his cheeks, “There you are.”

 

“R,” Enjolras leaned against the doorway, “I didn't expect you. What's going on?”

 

“The few texts you sent me today sounded tense.” Grantaire stood and went to the fridge, pulling out some chilled wine. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”  


“You really didn't have to,” Enjolras pointed out, watching the other pop open the bottle and carefully pour out a glass. “This must have taken hours.”

 

“Not nearly.” Grantaire pushed the class into his hand and pushed him towards the living room, forcing him to sit down on the couch. “Stay here. I'll get a plate together.”  


“Really, Grantaire, this is too m – hm.” His protest was silenced with a firm kiss to the mouth.

  
“Shut up,” the younger man gave his hair a little tug, making him grin, “Watch your boring daily dose of failing democracy and let me feed you.”

 

Enjolras watched his denim-clad savior walk back into the kitchen. The tension flowed out of him, shoulders slumping into the cushion while he kicked off his much-too-expensive shoes. Usually he was much too meticulous and worried about the strain on the structure but tonight he didn't care. He sipped at the deliciously tart drink and let his eyes lazily follow the ticker tape scrolling along the bottom of the screen.

 

Grantaire came back in with two plates, putting one in front of the blonde and the other in his own lap. He kicked his feet up on the coffee table and started shoving the brown sauce covered beef in his face, managing to scoop up some rice with each forkful. Enjolras stared down into his wine, letting it swirl around a few times before his mind caught up.

 

“Where did you get the money for all this?”

 

Grantaire grinned around the lip of his beer. He set it aside before digging into his pocket, pale digits plucking out a sizable wad of cash held together with a rubber band.

 

Blue eyes went wide. “R...where did you get that?”

 

“I sold my two Apollo paintings as a set to an art dealer in Paris,” Grantaire proclaimed proudly, “ 'Ponine made me put pictures of them up on her website and this guy fell in love with them. He practically gave me a blank check. He drove down here to get them and everything. It was pretty fantastic.”

 

He tossed the money on the table before returning to his food with a gusto. Enjolras just stared, mouth gaping dumbly as he processed what he'd just heard. Sold the paintings? The ones inspired by him? He wasn't sure what the feeling in his gut was but it was hard to keep down.

 

“You sold the archangel painting you just finished?”

 

“Mm-hmm.”

 

“And the...one of me?”  


“Yep.”

 

Enjolras frowned at the TV, mulling it over.

 

Grantaire saw this, tongue darting out to lap the sauce from his lip. “Enj...you aren't angry, are you?”  


“Of course not.” He quickly slapped a smile on his face. “They are your pieces and I'm happy you sold them. As I always am. I just thought that they would hold some sentimentality.”  


“ 'Sentiment'?”

 

“It's not funny,” Enjolras insisted as red colored his cheeks, “I thought they meant a lot to you.”

 

“I don't need them anymore,” Grantaire laughed and shoved an elbow into the older man's side, “I have you now, O' Fearless Leader. What is paint and canvas compared to your sweet flesh?”

 

Enjolras felt the breath leave him. “Grantaire.”

 

He was still smiling, “What?”

 

“I just...” Perfect teeth grazed over the swell of his mouth. “It's nothing.”

 

Deciding that the matter was over, Grantaire started talking about the leading story. Amid the chatter about Venezuela and the riots, Enjolras' mind started whirling around the plans he'd been laying down for years. New options started sliding into place, decisions he'd deemed hard started to soften up. Like the proverbial Grinch, he felt his heart grow three sizes in his chest. He watched the man's face dance with a dozen different emotions as he talked of the plight.

 

Grantaire was...spectacular.

 

***

 

Grantaire didn't want to wake up but his brain was already ahead of him. He'd never fall back asleep now. The artist stretched out to warm and flex all his muscles, pillows and blankets shifting and moving with him. He made an embarrassingly high noise as his ribs and spine popped to make themselves known. He collapsed into the mattress with a satisfied purr and managed to pry his eyes open.

 

He gave a small gasp of surprise. Cobalt shaded eyes were staring back at him, miles of tan skin laid out beside him with only a strip of sheet to hide his lover's modesty. Golden hair was ruffled up in mountainous spikes that, if traced, could have easily made a halo. There was a soft look upon Enjolras' face, lips curled upwards in an easy smile.

 

He looked (dare he even think it) _happy_.

 

“Come with me.”

 

The words were sweet, reminding him of all the times the man kissed him on the cheek or ran his fingers through his curls.

 

Grantaire rubbed a fist across his tired eyes, blinking hard in an attempt to clear the haze of the early hour. “I'm sorry?”

 

“Towards the end of summer, Combeferre and I are planning on leaving to Paris,” Enjolras replied, gaze dancing over him, “He's applied for a job there. 'Head of Finance' for some up-and-coming green company. It's fine pay and he could do some real good if he can help them up off the ground. I've already talked to my boss and there's no bad blood if I transfer there. It's a different firm but they looked over my work and they're overjoyed to have me. I'll be within a real courtroom, speaking on the behalf of others. It's all I've ever wanted and – my _God_ , you're beautiful when you just wake up.”

Grantaire blushed all the way up to his hairline, but the nagging worm of hurt in heart wouldn't leave.

 

“You're going? Strike that.” He managed to sit up on his elbows, glaring down the blonde, “You've already gone in your mind, which means I'm really here in bed alone.”

 

The bliss on Enjolras' face faded. “What do you mean?”

 

Grantaire swallowed thickly, afraid to choke, “It means I've already been left behind.”

 

“No.” A look of horror came over the man's handsome face and he sat up quickly, grabbing the artist's hand and squeezing. “God, R, no! It's quite the opposite.”  


“When were you planning on telling me?”

  
“I'm telling you now.”  


“With no warning! No hint!”

 

“I just figured it out last night,” the blonde actually grinned, “This is the earliest warning I could give.”

 

“And before?” he accused, not falling into that smile, “What were you going to do yesterday morning with me?”

 

“I wanted to know if we would work,” Enjolras replied in that bluntly honest way that meant he'd never handled something like this before, “I had to know you were ready to stay at my side, if it should come down to it.”  


Realization clicked. “The paintings?”

 

Full lips grazed his knuckles. “You are a dynamic young man, R, and I would be happy to spend the rest of my life trying to figure you out.”

 

“I love you,” Grantaire spilled out in a stupid, flat tone, “I've never heard you say it to me, and I would never want to if you didn't mean it.”

 

Golden brows knit together. “Have I not just said that?”

 

His laugh was bitter and wrong for the tenderness of the situation. “I think I would remember.”

 

“Is 'love' not offering up their life to someone else in hopes they will share it with you? Is 'love' something else than desiring to wake up with someone every morning and fall in bed with them every night? I want to go to work and find paint on my new shirt. I want you to be out in the world trying to sketch shadows and discover I've packed you snacks because you never remember to. I want to live with you next to 'Ferre and 'Feyrac. I want to-” Enjolras laughed brightly, “I want to accidentally hear them have sex through the wall and be grossed out with you!”

 

The laughter was infectious. “I want that too!”

 

“I love you,” Enjolras enunciated sharply with that same sweet tone, letting it flow with the same rhythm into the next words, “ _Come with me_.”

 

Grantaire felt his chest go tight.

 

“Are they not the same?” the blonde murmured, brushing some hair back from the other's face.

 

“They are,” Grantaire sniffed, shaking his head, “God, Apollo, of course they are.”

 

“Will you take my father's money?” Enjolras pushed tentatively, “I won't unless you agree.”  


“One hundred thousand euro buys a shit ton of paint.”

 

They dropped their foreheads together, sharing a small laugh.

 

“I will follow you anywhere,” Grantaire swore.

 

“I will take you with me,” Enjolras promised back.

 

Their noses brushed, two sets of blue eyes falling closed as they swathed themselves in the intimacy of the moment.

 

“It won't be easy.”

 

“God damn it, Enjolras.” Grantaire dragged their hands up and placed a kiss on both of them, letting his teeth dig a little into the side of the blonde's palm. “When has anything ever been easy for us?”

 

* * *

**Alright, alright *slow clap* Tears all around, right? I'm sorry it took so long but I was clinging onto this story tooth and nail. It survived not one but TWO computer malfunctions. I literally lost it twice and still managed to finish it. Not many of my fics can say that. The boys are just too much fun to write and I'm here to say that I am SO NOT done writing in the Les Mis fandom. You guys are truly welcoming and sweet and – damn – dedicated.**

**There's going to be a sequel to this where we learn how 'Ferre and 'Feyrac manage to cope with the move and how all that goes. Maybe do a little drop in visit from the others, but definitely get a peek at E and R and how they get along. There's that fishing AU to deal with, plus – sorry, not sorry – I started another Les Mis AU with E/R as the main couple and you'll never actually guess what kind of crossover it is.**

_**Skyrim.** _

**No, I'm not joking and I'm not apologizing because it's so much fun to play the game as my Enjolras character. I channel the muse through to him and make game decisions off that. It's a very political game so our fearless leader fits right in. But how does Grantaire fit? You'll find out (and so will I because I haven't got that far). It won't be a long thing, just a series of one shots since I've been working on that skill.**

**_MORAL OF THE STORY_ :**

**If you haven't written E/R yourself, do it. You'll learn some things, you'll fall in love, you'll cry, you'll angst, it's fantastic. Trust me. That, and keep the above quote in mind next time you go looking for love. Thoughtful, true words.**

**My friends, I must leave you now. Last bow and all that. I really hope you did enjoy it, and I hope you had as much reading and waiting for it as I had writing it. It was one of my favorite experiences and I'll never regret it.**

**If you've been around since the beginning, thank you for sticking around for all of that. If you've been reading it for the past twelve hours and you should've been sleeping/doing homework/studying/cleaning, you need to go take a nap and get some food probably.**

**I love you guys. The boys love you too.**

 

 


End file.
